


Consign Me Not To Darkness

by karevsprincess



Series: Broken Crown [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, At least happier than season 8's will be that's for damn sure, Aunt/Nephew Incest, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Like it's not major but yeah people are gonna die, Marriage Proposal, Minor Character Death, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, POV Multiple, Past Abuse, Past Miscarriage, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Season/Series 07, Pregnancy, Reunions, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-06-26 08:56:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 100,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15659937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karevsprincess/pseuds/karevsprincess
Summary: The Night King is marching on Winterfell and winter has come to Westeros. The living must band together to end the Long Night, while also dealing with family matters and affairs of the heart. Love is the death of duty and a war is no time for romance, but some things can't be helped.The Great War from thirteen perspectives, told in thirteen parts.





	1. Northward Bound

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in this fandom and also the first fanfic I've posted on AO3. I would really appreciate your feedback since this is my first time in this fandom and I don't have a beta reader. I really hope you guys like it! This story is based off the TV show canon and though parts of it are inspired from plot elements in the books, you definitely don't need to read the books to understand this.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and her Hand discuss succession; Davos thinks about love and regrets; Jon is caught in an embarrassing situation; Jaime picks up a traveling companion.

****

**Daenerys** :

For a moment when she woke, she forgot where she was.

It had been months since she slept so soundly and so deeply, so when Daenerys bolted upright in bed she was disoriented for a moment. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the blanketing darkness inside the cabin. She could hear the sounds of waves beating against the ship, and that plus the warm body next to her brought her back to reality.

She glanced down and saw that Jon was still asleep. He stirred slightly, rolling further onto his stomach and emitting a soft snore from his nose, but the arm draped across her waist did not move. A smile came to Daenerys’s face. Even though she had only known Jon Snow for a few months, there was something about him that felt so familiar, this intrinsic connection between them that Daenerys had never experienced before. She knew she could deny it no longer the moment she saw him with Drogon.

_I dreamt of him, but then his face was only a shadow._ Back when a sea still separated them she had dreamt of a faceless young lover too many times to count, but over time she lost hope she would find him. _But I dreamt of Jon Snow._ She knew now. _And my dreams come true._

Still, she felt too restless to go back to sleep, so Daenerys carefully untangled herself from her lover’s embrace, covering her nakedness with a robe before she quietly slipped from the room. The ship was quiet as its other occupants slept – they were just a few days from White Harbor now and then they would begin their procession towards Winterfell. She had never seen the North before, this frigid, vast land she aimed to rule, but the stories Jon told her made it seem so familiar. When they laid together afterwards, her head on his chest and her fingers tracing the scar above his heart, his words painted a picture of his childhood home and family so vividly she could see it before her. The tales entranced her. She’d never had a real home of her own – or a family, really.

Viserys had been her brother but he was foolish and stupid. She loved him once and he had returned her blind loyalty by selling her in marriage to Khal Drogo. She was nothing more to him than chattel to be bought and sold, more property than human. _He was mad, like our father. He never loved me. My brother Rhaegar died on the Trident and my mother at Dragonstone, bringing me into the world…_ The thought filled her with sorrow. _They were the last family I had, and I never got a chance to know them._ Even Drogo, her sun and stars, only brought up mixed feelings now. She had loved him, but the beginning of their union had been far from ideal, as he would slip into her tent every night to ride her like a horse that needed to be broken, Dany crying into her pillow after he left her. She was a child then, forced into a desperate situation, and he was a man who should've known better. Thinking about it now, Daenerys realized that Jon Snow was the only man who had ever shown her nothing but goodness and tenderness. The only man she may be able to love not out of necessity, but because of his heart.

On the deck it was cold and the waves were rough, beating against the sides of the ship. Daenerys had to grab onto the rail for balance. She looked up at the black, starless sky and wondered where Drogon and Rhaegal had gone. They had likely flown off for the night and would return to her in the morning. There was no room for them on the ship but her sons still liked to remain close. After the loss of her Viserion – the sweetest of her dragons – she was more protective of them than before.

“Can’t sleep, Your Grace?”

Daenerys jumped a little at the sound of Tyrion’s voice, her Hand emerging from the shadows, flagon of wine in hand. She had not noticed him until now. Though her Hand hadn’t been drinking much since they arrived at Dragonstone – to keep his mind clear and senses alert, perhaps – as he walked towards her he lurched and swayed. He was clearly drunk. “How much have you had?”

“Oh, quite a lot.” Tyrion could barely lift the flagon to his lips and spilled red wine on the ground. “I saw something troubling.”

“What?”

“Jon Snow coming to your room.”

Daenerys’s body stiffened and her hands clenched the railing tight enough to turn her knuckles white. They'd been careful, or so she thought, but it seemed there was little that Tyrion Lannister did not pick up on. “I don’t see how that is any of your business.”

“With all due respect, Your Grace, when you asked me to be your Hand your business became my business.” He took another long sip of wine, his eyes softening. “This is a dangerous time to fall in love.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Her voice broke over the words, and Daenerys resented herself for sounding so weak.

Tyrion did not comment on it, however, and she was grateful to him for that. His Lannister green eyes turned towards the sea, studying the rough waters. “However, I will raise the same issue that I did on Dragonstone: succession.” Daenerys opened her mouth to object, but Tyrion continued. “A marriage to Jon Snow would squash any Northern doubts, and guarantee that a child with blood of the Starks would one day sit the throne.”

“I cannot do that.”

“Why not? I can see in your eyes that you love him.”

Her throat tightened. “That is why I cannot.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything as the waves beat on. “Your Grace,” Tyrion said finally. “I know you said you cannot have children, but have you seen a maester? Are you certain?”

“I’m certain.” She said. “When I was with Daario, he was not the most… _vigilant,_ about pulling out. Yet, in all those months, I never became pregnant by him.”

“Yes, well, your old paramour didn’t exactly keep to one bed. And some venereal diseases are known to cause infertility…”  

Daenerys took the flagon from Tyrion’s hands and drained it in one long gulp. “I’m barren. I’m sure of it. You weren’t there, you didn’t see…” She had to shut her eyes at the memory of Mirri Maz Duur and the shadows she danced with in her tent. _That witch cursed me and killed my son, the only child who will ever be born of my body. She betrayed my trust. I will not make that mistake again._

Afterwards they parted and Daenerys pulled her robe tighter around her body, feeling chilled. Revisiting old ghosts never was a soothing thought to have before bed. She tried to slip quietly back into the cabin, but when a sliver of light from the torches in the hall entered the room, Jon stirred. “Dany?” He murmured, voice thick with sleep.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” She whispered, slipping off her robe again and rejoining her lover under the furs. His arm instinctively wrapped back around her waist. “Go back to sleep, Jon Snow.”

“Hmm.” He pulled her closer to him and kissed the top of her head, his eyes fluttering shut again. “If my queen commands it.”

He fell back asleep quickly but Daenerys remained awake until the wee hours of the morning, her head propped up on her arm as she watched the rising and falling of his chest. She tried to memorize every detail of his face, every scar that marked his body, every shard of proof that he was here and real and hers.   

She knew when they arrived at Winterfell this behavior could not continue.  

* * *

**Davos** :

Ever since he learned to write, Davos had developed a habit of penning his letters late at night. In the quiet with only the light of a single candle, there was nothing to distract him from his thoughts. Tonight, though, he couldn’t seem to form the right words.

_Dearest Marya,_

_I know I’ve been away from you for longer than we had planned –_

He sighed. _No, not right._ He crumpled the paper in his good hand and threw it across the room, where it landed on top of the accumulating stack. After he learned to write, Davos began sending letters home to his wife at Cape Wrath. Their fifth son Devan – _our eldest now, technically,_ he thought to himself – knew how to read and write from his days as Stannis’s squire, so he would transcribe Lady Marya’s responses back to Davos. Lately, however, he had not been receiving anything from home. It was possible that the ravens couldn’t reach Cape Wrath in the winter, he supposed, though that was unlikely considering it hadn’t snowed much in the south yet. Could his family be hurt or in danger, and that was why they did not reply?

_Or perhaps she is just tired of my excuses._ Davos thought bitterly. His wife was a warm and generous woman, but even she had her limits. _She lost four sons at the Blackwater and I did not come then. Now winter is here and she is alone at our keep with nothing to do but wait for the husband she has not seen in years. Would I even recognize my Stannis and Steffon now, if I saw them again? They were boys when I left them and now they are half-grown._

Davos glanced over his shoulder at the berth opposite his own. He shared a cabin with Gendry and was trying not to wake the lad, but luckily he seemed to be asleep, eyes shut, chest rising and falling steadily. It was getting late and Davos knew he needed to go to sleep himself soon. He dipped his quill in ink and began again on a fresh piece of parchment.

_Dearest Marya,_

_I owe you an apology and I know these words on paper only begin to cover the wrongs I have done you. I was a better smuggler than a knight, a better knight than a King’s Hand, and a better King’s Hand than a husband. I have been more focused on fulfilling my oaths to kings than my oath to you. I have loved you, Marya, every day of my life but these past few years I have been rotten at showing it. I hope that someday soon, when I can look into your eyes again, you will gift me with your forgiveness. Please kiss our sons for me and tell them their father misses them._

He was about to sign his name and blow out the candle when he heard the sound of rustling from Gendry’s berth. Davos thought that he had woken him up but when he looked around he saw that he was still asleep, though now tossing and turning. Trapped in the throes of a nightmare, he called out barely loud enough for Davos to hear: “Arya…”

The Onion Knight dropped his quill in surprise, splattering an ink blot on the page. _Did he say…?_ He crossed the room to grab Gendry by the shoulders and lightly shook him. “Wake up, lad. Wake up, you’re having a nightmare…”

Gendry’s eyes opened, but in his half-awake state he tried to sit up and wacked his head on the bunk above him. “Seven hells! Oy, Ser Davos, what time is it?”

“You were having a nightmare. I thought it best to wake ye…” Davos paused, wondering if he should leave it here, for clearly whatever Gendry had been dreaming of was something he didn’t want Davos to know. But Davos cared for the boy, and if there was something that was plaguing him he wanted to help if he could. “In your sleep, you were calling out for His Grace’s – err, the _Warden of the North’s_ sister.” Davos still had to remind himself when speaking of Jon that he wasn’t King in the North anymore. 

Gendry’s eyes widened and he propped himself up on one of his elbows, now wide awake. “Arya?”

“Well, yes. Unless there is some reason why you may be dreaming of Lady Sansa as well?” Gendry was unable to look at him now and Davos sighed to himself. _I care about you, boy, but I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the truth._ “Why did you not tell Jon that you knew his sister? You told him about your father, but not about her.”

“No reason…”

Davos did not believe that for a second. “Did something happen between the two of you that you did not want him to know about?” He raised an eyebrow and Gendry's face blanched.

“No! No it was nothing like that. We were friends, and she was just a girl…” When he met Davos’s eyes again, he looked as if he was remembering something he’d rather forget. Davos knew that look all too well. “She was just a girl and she needed me, but I left her. She didn’t have anyone else and I was too selfish and stupid…”

“If you mean what happened with Melisandre, that wasn’t your fault.”

“No – no before that I was going to become a smith for the Brotherhood. I was going to abandon her and she was _pissed_ at me. But I had this idea in my head that I needed to become something, that if I went to Winterfell with her they wouldn’t let me see her anymore, not unless I could…” Gendry trailed off and shook his head. “I was stupid, just like she said I was. She died hating me…”

_Oh, lad._ Davos thought. _You don’t know, do you?_ “Gendry.” He said gently. “Lady Arya isn’t dead.”

His words were clearly news to Gendry, and he could not mask the emotions that crossed his face – shock then confusion and then, most of all, elation. “She’s not?”

“She’s alive and home at Winterfell, Jon received a raven back on Dragonstone. She’s alive and you’ll see her again in just a few more weeks.”  

“She’s alive…” Gendry murmured to himself, almost like he couldn’t believe it, and then he laughed. “Seven hells, she’s alive…”

Davos felt almost like he was intruding on a private moment somehow, so he got back up and went back to his letter. Part of him wanted to crumple this one up too and start again. _But no words can properly take back these past few years. I’ll find fault no matter what I write_. With some reluctance, he signed his name and blew out the candle, sending the room into pitch blackness. “Go back to sleep, lad. We’ll talk in the morning.”

* * *

**Jon** :

He woke up shortly after dawn to light filtering in through the porthole. The bed was cold and he reached over, searching for Daenerys’s warmth, but his hand touched only mattress. Jon opened his eyes and sat up – she’d gotten up in the middle of the night last night and left the bed before him, so clearly she hadn’t slept much. Using the fur to cover his nakedness, he got out of bed and scoured the floor for his clothes, which had been disregarded haphazardly the night before. He redressed himself in his now-wrinkled clothes and pulled his messy curls out of his face. It was still early enough that he could slip back into his room and change before anyone else woke.

But as soon as Jon exited Daenerys’s cabin, he ran – quite literally – into Missandei. The woman smiled politely and made no mention of his unruly appearance. “My lord,” Clearly she knew what had transpired the night before, but she skirted around the issue and averted her eyes. “I was just sent to check up on you. The queen is in the dining hall and would like a word.”

“Well, I…” He trailed off. Jon needed to make himself presentable, but he supposed there was no harm in speaking to Daenerys, since it was still early enough that he could have time before the others woke up. _And after all,_ he thought. _She saw me last night with a lot less…_ “Yes, of course. Lead the way.”

Except when Missandei opened the doors to the dining hall, a dozen pairs of eyes were suddenly pointed in his direction. Daenerys sat at the head of the table, drinking a cup of tea, flanked by Tyrion on one side and Varys on the other. Davos and Jorah were engaged in a conversation and Gendry was standing by two of Daenerys’s bloodriders, examining one of their arakhs while the Dothrakis were staring curiously at some Westerosi swords. Grey Worm was standing against the wall, back ramrod straight, but a slight smile toyed with his lips when his eyes met Missandei’s. She blushed and looked away, returning loyally to Daenerys’s side. “Would you like me to finish with your braids, Your Grace?”

Everyone turned away and got back to their work, but it was clear they had noticed Jon’s disheveled state, even if they did not comment on it. Daenerys, however, looked him directly in the eyes and made no attempts to hide her staring. “Tell me Jon Snow, how is it that proper northern ladies wear their hair?”

Jon pulled out a chair and a serving girl appeared out of nowhere to pour him a cup of coffee. He gave her a nod of thanks. “Rather simply, Your Grace. Usually half-up, half-down, or with a side braid. Little girls sometimes use two braids.”

“Northerners do not favor southron finery, Your Grace.” Jorah added. “They cling steadfastly to their traditions and are loyal to their own. They don’t take well to outsiders.”

“Like me.” Daenerys said. There was no anger in her voice. She said it matter-of-factly and, unbothered, took another sip of her tea.

“Your Grace – ”

“No point in lying to me, Ser Jorah. I know the northerners will mistrust me, but I intend to earn their trust. Just like I’ve earned their king’s.” She looked to Missandei. “Do you think you could fix my hair as Jon Snow described?”

Missandei ran her slender fingers through Daenerys’s silver hair. “Perhaps I could do it half-up, half-down, but form the bun out of a series of braids. What do you think?”

Daenerys smiled. “Perfect. Thank you, Missandei.”

Missandei’s fingers moved nimbly through Daenerys’s hair, while the queen sat back in her chair listening to Tyrion and Varys as they pointed out spots on a map of the north, explaining the histories of the different houses. Jorah and Davos went back to conversing quietly while one of the bloodriders said something to Gendry in Dothraki, which he clearly didn’t understand. “Ser Jorah,” He said. “Do you mind?”

“He asked if you could make something like it out of dragonglass.”

Gendry thought for a moment. “Tell him I’ll try. I’ve never made one before, especially out of dragonglass, but the design seems straightforward enough.” Jorah looked to the Dothraki and translated.

“But you believe you could?” Daenerys asked.

Gendry nodded, unable to meet her eyes. He always looked suddenly uncertain whenever the queen addressed him, like she was trying to catch him in a trap. “The weapon seems relatively simple to assemble, Your Grace, and if we can make dragonglass into spears I see no reason why I couldn’t forge it into arakhs, arrowheads, or even swords.”

“Tell me, who taught you your trade?”

“Tobho Mott, Your Grace. The greatest armorer in King’s Landing.”

Daenerys nodded slowly and drummed her fingers against the table top. “And who paid your apprentice fee with the greatest armorer in King’s Landing?”

Varys sat up a little straighter in his chair – the eunuch had been oddly quiet until now. “Actually, I did, Your Grace.”

Daenerys’s violet eyes widened and when Jon glanced at Gendry, he also seemed surprised by this news. The queen smiled but there was no warmth behind it. “Why are you only mentioning this now, Lord Varys?”

Varys shrugged. “Never came up, Your Grace.”

“How many of the Usurper’s bastards have you helped?” Jon saw Gendry visibly flinch at the phrase _Usurper’s bastards_ , and even Davos looked bothered on his behalf.

“He was the only one, Your Grace. I knew of a few others, and there were many more I did not know of, but there was nothing I could do for them. I regret not helping the poor baby girl Janos Slynt killed – never did I think that Joffrey would be so cruel as to order the murder of an infant still at her mother’s tit, oh no. But Gendry here was one of the first I found and caused me to realize the truth about Cersei Lannister’s incest. I needed him alive if I wanted to destabilize Joffrey’s claim.”

“And would you have put him on the Iron Throne then?”

“Not at all, Your Grace. My heart has always been with the Targaryens, and a bastard – even a royal one – has no claims to his father’s titles, anyhow.” He glanced at Gendry. “No offense.”

“A son should not be punished for the sins of his father.” Tyrion piped up. “Don’t you agree, Your Grace?”

Daenerys hesitated, then nodded. “Of course, Lord Tyrion. And Gendry, I mean you no harm. I thank you for your help with the weapons.” _But she still doesn’t trust him._ Jon thought. He could see it in her eyes. _Daenerys doesn’t trust easily, and she hates Baratheons._ He supposed he couldn’t blame her for that, not after the betrayals she had known, but Jon hoped that she would grow to like Gendry, as he did – and that she wouldn’t regard his family and his people with the same suspicion.

The doors to the dining hall opened and the Hound walked in, still half-asleep, the last member of their party to arrive. He swiped a strip of bacon from a serving girl’s passing tray. “Seven hells, why are you up so damn early? Don’t any of you bloody sleep?” He bit into the bacon and his eyes roved the room, finally landing on Jon. He did not bother to hide his staring, openly looking Jon up and down, from his messy hair to his ensemble of last night’s clothes. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

Jon’s face grew hot and he glanced at Daenerys, who only laughed and took another sip of her tea. “The Warden of the North had a long night last night, I’m afraid.”  

And mayhaps he would have a long night again tonight, if he was lucky.

* * *

**Jaime** :

The snow looked beautiful as it fell.

The flakes were unadulterated white and perfect, dancing to the ground in their deliberate, rhythmic swirl, slow at first and then faster the further he rode away from King’s Landing. They clumped in his lashes and accumulated on fabric of his cloak. Even underneath his glove, his golden hand felt chilled and the cold metal bit at the skin of his stump. Though the snowfall looked innocuous now, soon white would cover the earth as far as the eye could see, freezing the crops and chilling the air for years to come. The past spring had lasted ten years, the longest of any on record. This would be the worst winter yet.

Jaime pulled his hood tighter against his face. He had lived through many winters and never had he felt such uncertainty. _Winter is here and I am alone, riding towards certain death._ If the Mother of Dragons did not separate his head from his shoulders, then those damned undead soldiers would surely be the death of him. The moment he saw that wight emerge from its crate, it had scared the shit out of him like no man ever had. _And yet Cersei could not even be bothered by it._  He thought. _She doesn’t care who they kill, as long as she can become queen of the skeletons…_

He hated himself for still caring about her after how she’d treated him. Cersei had meant everything to him and now he knew he was nothing to her. _I would’ve died for her. I killed for her. I pushed a_ boy _out of a tower for her…_ His stomach clenched at the memory of little Bran Stark, and how broken he looked when he reached the ground. Back then, the sight had bothered him not at all. _What a fool I was. I ruined my life for her and what did she ever give me?_

But yet he still couldn’t let Cersei go, not when his child was growing in her womb. It still hurt him to think of the children he lost. He’d been happier than ever when Myrcella told him she was glad to be his daughter, only to plummet to devastating sorrow moments later when she collapsed into his arms, his beautiful girl cruelly ripped from the world. He never had the opportunity to grieve for Tommen, that sweet boy who had deserved so much more, and not once had Cersei wanted to speak about him, disregarding their little boy as if he never existed at all. He should’ve known then that she was too far gone, but he was too craven to leave her _._ He even mourned for Joffrey in a way, wondering if maybe things could’ve been different had Jaime been able to be a father to him, or if Cersei hadn’t spoiled him so. But there was no point in wondering about what ifs when they were all dead now, and truthfully it would be best if he gave up hope about this new babe too. There were only three ways this war could play out: the dead could win and kill them all, the Dragon Queen could win and kill Cersei and the child within her, or Cersei could win and never let Jaime see his child, maybe even go through with her threat to murder him. None of these options ended with a happy life and family for him.

_There are no happy endings, not for men like me._ Jaime thought bitterly. _Maybe there could’ve been one, but it’s too late._ His mind wandered to a certain woman with eyes the color of sapphires and a sword he gave her. She was his last chance at redemption, his last chance at happiness, and he fucked it all up. _I may have saved her life once or twice, but she saved me more times than I can count. Surely she hates me now._ She was brave and honorable, when Jaime knew he’d been the opposite…

He snapped out of his musings when he heard the sound of a branch snapping behind him. Jaime glanced over his shoulder, searching for any signs of rustling in the brush. He gave his horse a kick and rode faster down the road. It would be dark soon and maybe if he could ride far enough away from King’s Landing, he could find shelter at an inn where no one would recognize his face…

But even at his quickened pace he heard the sound of hoofbeats behind him, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He could not tell if it was one man or a dozen behind him, but he was being followed, surely. He kicked the horse again. “Faster.”

The animal neighed and practically sprinted up the path, and Jaime narrowly avoided whacking his face on a tree branch. His pursuant was still behind him, and Jaime directed the horse to move in zigzags, hoping he could lose whoever it was. Then he heard someone shout out for him.

“Seven fucking hells Lannister, I’m not going to kill ya!”

Jaime looked over his shoulder and the horse lurched to a stop when its hoof got caught in a root, hidden under the accumulating dust of snow, nearly throwing Jaime off its back. “Bronn?”

The sellsword appeared from the brush and smirked at him. “I’ve been following you for a league and a half! And no, your sister didn’t send me, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Why are you here? How did you even know where I was going?”

“Well where the fuck else would you be going? Half of the bloody Red Keep knows about your argument with your sister-lover-queen-whatever. I know you like to think that you’re a complicated man, Lannister, but you’re really not. I’m coming with you to Winterfell.”

Jaime narrowed his eyes at him. “You know this isn’t going to be some leisurely trip. You could very well die. The Army of the Dead may kill you, if the Targaryen girl doesn’t burn you alive with one of her dragons first. When we get there she may not want to hear what we have to say at all, once she sees my sister’s army isn’t with us.”

“I can handle myself, thank you very much. And who’s going to watch your arse if I’m not around?” Bronn chuckled to himself and pulled his horse around so that it trotted side by side with Jaime’s. “Plus I was promised a castle and a wife by you and your little brother. What good will staying in King’s Landing do me with you both gone? No, I’m not leaving your side until the debt is paid. And, you know what your people always say…”

Jaime rolled his eyes. “A Lannister always pays his debts.”

Bronn laughed again and slugged him on the arm. “Atta boy, Lannister! Now come on, off we go. Winterfell’s a long ways away and I want to look around so I can decide which castle I want…”


	2. Return to Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya has some unexpected reunions; Sansa talks with an old friend; Sam has to break some life-changing news; a traveler arrives at their destination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed and/or left kudos on chapter one! I hope you like this new chapter.

**Arya** :

It was snowing the morning Jon came home.

The sky was grey, like the Stark colors, and Arya watched her breath billow out in front of her as she stood in the courtyard of Winterfell. _Jon was coming home._ It was no longer some far off concept, an abstract wish or hope, but an inevitability. The party was due to arrive in only a matter of moments, Jon with the Dragon Queen, the Imp and all her men.

It had been seven years since Arya last laid eyes on her favorite brother. She wondered if he would even recognize her – the last time Jon saw her she was eleven, a skinny little thing with two braids, scabby knees and a tomboyish streak. Though she was still quite short and slim, and her hair was almost back to its old length, her skill with a blade would surely take him by surprise. _He was the one who gave me Needle, the last time I saw him…_

In the years since she left Winterfell, Jon was the one she missed the most. She and Sansa had nothing in common and Arya had thought her sister wouldn’t miss her at all. She’d worried that her family resented her for not acting like a proper lady, that she’d only be a hindrance to them. She’d felt like an outsider in her family, but Jon – Jon was an outsider too. He was the one who always understood her, who accepted her for who she was.   

Sansa appeared by her side then, looking like a proper northern lady in a dress with a direwolf sewn on the front. Her red hair burnt bright against the darkness of the morning. _A queen without a crown._ “What have you heard about this Dragon Queen?”

Arya shrugged. “She birthed dragons for the first time in hundreds of years, freed the Unsullied, united the Dothraki…They say she is a great liberator.”

“She’s a _conqueror_.” Sansa said. “That’s what Targaryens are.”

“Targaryens can also be great kings – and even better queens.” In truth, Arya thought of Daenerys Targaryen with a degree of fascination. Growing up she had idolized the Targaryen queens of history – Aegon’s sisters Visenya and Rhaenys on their dragons, Good Queen Alysanne who believed in equality for women, Rhaenyra the Half-Year Queen who started a war for the crown she’d been denied – and Arya wondered what this beautiful warrior queen would be like. Jon approved of her, and that was enough for Arya. She trusted his judgment and knew he wouldn’t align himself with someone if he didn’t think it was for the best.  

They were interrupted by the sound of Bran’s wheelchair, pushed by Samwell Tarly, whose cheeks were flushed from the weight of carrying Bran’s chair down the stairs. “Sam,” Bran said, before the former Night’s Watchman could move away. “When Jon arrives we must speak to him as soon as possible. You’ll be ready?”

Sam glanced at Arya and Sansa, his face red, and forced a nod. “Of course. Excuse me.” He scurried off without another word, and Arya found it odd - you'd think he'd want to stay and greet Jon, especially since they were supposed to be best friends...

She looked at Bran. “What was that about?”

Bran did not meet her eyes. “You’ll see.”

She didn’t know what that was supposed to mean. Bran had been acting so cryptic since his return to Winterfell, and Arya knew he had to be hiding something. He wasn’t the brother she used to know anymore. He was different now – colder, quieter, and more far away now than he was when thousands of leagues separated them.

For a moment, her heart clenched and she wondered if Jon would be different now. If he wouldn’t love her anymore. If he would be disappointed in the person she'd become. But she pushed the fear down, down, down, trying to squash it. This was _Jon_. She couldn't let herself think like that.

“The King in the North has returned!”  

As the guard yelled out the gates opened slowly and Arya stood on her tiptoes, aching for a glimpse of Jon. There were men with long braids on horses who had to be Dothraki, stern looking soldiers staring blankly ahead of them who had to be the Unsullied. Then a voice cried out: “Make way for the King in the North!” The crowds parted as a dark horse rode through the clearing, and Arya spotted a familiar head of black curls in the mass. Around her Northerners dropped to their knees, but she felt frozen in place.   

He looked older, tired and scarred, but when their matching pairs of grey eyes met, she swore she saw him smile. He disembarked from his horse and began to walk towards her, and Arya peeled away from the line to meet him halfway. She broke into a run and practically launched herself into his awaiting arms. Jon hugged her and kissed the top of her head. “I missed you, little sister. I'm so glad you're safe.”

Arya could not remember the last time she cried, but with Jon’s arms wrapped around her again after all these years, her eyes welled with tears. “I missed you too, big brother.”

Reluctantly they pulled apart, and she saw Jon smile when he spotted the skinny sword at her waist. “You’ve still got Needle, huh?”

She nodded. “I’m quite good with it now.”

“I bet you are. Perhaps we’ll spar later.”

“I’ll go easy on you.”

Jon laughed at that, and kissed the top of her head again. She had a feeling he would be in for quite the surprise when he actually saw her in action. _He still thinks of me as a little girl playing at war, but I’m not. I haven’t been for a long time._

Now, Jon’s attention turned to Bran and he went to give their brother a hug. “It’s good to see you, brother.”

Bran lifted his arms and weakly hugged Jon back. “Welcome home.” His voice was devoid of inflection, and to Arya it was almost infuriating. _This is the first time he’s seen Jon in years. Doesn’t he care at all?_ The Bran she had once known now felt lost to her. She just wanted him to feel something.

Jon moved to greet Sansa with a peck on the cheek, but Arya was distracted when she saw the Dragon Queen disembark from her horse. There were no dragons in sight – though surely they couldn’t be far off – but there was no doubt in Arya’s mind that the beautiful, silver-haired woman was _the_ Daenerys Targaryen. Dressed in grey and white damask with tall boots and hair tumbling down her shoulders, she walked towards them with all the confidence and grace befitting a queen. Jon extended a gloved hand towards her and pulled her closer to him, so that she was standing directly in front of Arya, Sansa and Bran. “May I present Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen. Your Grace, may I present my sister, Lady Sansa Stark…”

Sansa curtsied politely. “A pleasure to meet you, Your Grace.”

“…my brother, Lord Brandon Stark…”

Bran bowed his head. “Your Grace.”

“…and my other sister, Lady Arya Stark.”

Arya met the Dragon Queen’s eyes directly, grey meeting violet. The corner of the Targaryen woman’s lips turned up into a smile. “Your Grace.”

They held each other’s stares for a few moments before Daenerys turned away, looking back to Sansa. “Thank you for welcoming us into your home, Lady Stark. Jon has told me so much about each of you.” She looked at Jon and that was enough to make him flush pink as a maiden. Not only had the queen addressed him by his first name, but now they could barely meet each other’s eyes without blushing. _He fancies her,_ Arya thought. _And she may fancy him as well._

Looking at Sansa, Arya could see the same suspicion lurking beneath her tight-lipped smile. “Winterfell welcomes you, Your Grace.”

Jon did not let go of the Dragon Queen’s arm as they walked inside led by Sansa, Bran following behind them with a servant pushing his wheelchair. Arya hung back a moment, her eyes scanning the Dragon Queen’s retinue. She would be lying if she said she was not intrigued by the stories she’d heard of Daenerys Targaryen’s adventures in Essos. There were Dothraki bloodriders with arakhs strapped to their hips, Unsullied soldiers in their armor. One man had a bear sigil on his leather that Arya recognized as belonging to House Mormont. Her gaze drifted down the line, but then she did a double take when she caught sight of a certain scarred face. “Hound?”

Sure enough, the man turned to look at her and grunted softly when their eyes met. “Thought I finally shook you when you left me on that mountainside.”

Tentatively, Arya walked towards him and started to raise her hand, then dropped it. She didn’t know if she wanted to slap him or hug him. “You’re not dead.”

“I see that.” Sandor Clegane retorted with a roll of his eyes. “You’re not dead either.” He paused, looking at her from head to toe. “How you doing with that damned list of yours? Those poor sons of bitches know what’s coming for them?”

Arya shrugged a single shoulder. “Most of them are dead already.”

He laughed. “Serves ‘em right.”

Arya smiled at him, and tilted her head. “…I’m glad you’re not dead.” She confessed quietly.

The Hound held her gaze for a moment – Arya swore she saw the ghost of a smile on his lips, if only for a moment – and then turned to look over his shoulder. “Brought a surprise for ya.” Before she could ask what that meant, he stepped aside and when Arya turned her head, she momentarily forgot how to breathe.

At first she thought her eyes were deceiving her. He was dead – she’d watched him be dragged away from her, mourned for him, and then swore to avenge him. He had to be dead, but yet just a few moments ago she thought the Hound was dead too. Looking at him, she could see differences, proof that he was not a ghost but a living human being, aged and weathered. He’d cut his hair, had a shadow of a beard, and his arms were stronger and more toned. He was alive. Gendry was alive.

But despite all that had changed, when he looked at her he smiled that same stupid smile. “Hello Arry.”

Arya opened her mouth, desperately searching for something to say to him, but her words escaped her. So instead she stepped forward –

\- and kicked him in the shin.  

Gendry yelped and grabbed his leg, while out of the corner of her eye Arya could see the Hound chuckling to himself. “Hey! What was that for?”

She smacked him in the chest with both hands. “That was for trying to join the Brotherhood and leave me, stupid!”

Gendry’s expression softened and his eyes met hers. His eyes were so, _so_ blue. “Well, we finally made it to Winterfell. Only took five years.”  

Arya’s heart was pounding in her ears. Now she felt like the stupid one. She didn’t lose her composure over a boy – not even a boy who she may have, once upon a time, been infatuated with. “I thought the Red Woman killed you.”

“She tried.” Gendry said. “But she failed. You don’t have to worry about me, Arry. I’m a survivor. I learned that from you.”

She couldn't stay mad at Gendry for long - she'd missed him too much. Before he could pause to take a breath, she practically jumped on him, her arms wrapped around his neck as she pulled him towards her into an embrace. After the initial shock wore off, Gendry wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer, Arya burying her face into his shoulder and closing her eyes. “Don’t ever leave me again.”

Gendry’s arm tightened around her waist, as if in silent agreement.    

* * *

**Sansa** :

“The Targaryen girl cannot be trusted.”

Yohn Royce’s breath was hot in her ear, and Sansa schooled her face into an insincere smile. “The Targaryen girl is very generous to agree to help us with the Night King.”

“But my lady,” Royce persisted. “The Targaryens! They are madmen! That girl’s father killed your lord grandfather and your uncle!”

Sansa’s composed expression faltered for a moment as she glared at Lord Royce. The look in her eyes must’ve been cold as ice, because it effectively silenced him. “You think I don’t know that, Lord Royce? I’m not stupid and I don’t appreciate you talking to me as if I am. I don’t trust the Dragon Queen, but I’m smart enough to know we need her now. The White Walkers are a threat to every man, woman and child who lives, and she’s promised to help us defeat them. The Iron Throne can wait until after the Night King is dead.”

Lord Royce’s face contorted into a grimace. “We don’t associate ourselves with madmen in the Vale. Perhaps I’ll take the Knights of the Vale and escort them back to safety at the Eyrie.”

Sansa glanced around the room. The Dragon Queen was walking through the Great Hall, a man with a bear sigil arm-in-arm with her. _Ser Jorah Mormont._ Sansa thought. _It has to be. There’s another reason to regard her with suspicion…_ She turned back to Royce. “As you wish, my lord. I just advise you to remember that if the Night King marches on Westeros, even the impregnable Eyrie won’t be able to stop him. And even if he is defeated without you…well, as you said the Targaryens are known to be unstable. What’s to stop Daenerys Targaryen from flying down there on dragonback when she finds out you’ve abandoned our shared cause?” Sansa smiled at him, showing her teeth. “Enjoy the feast, my lord.”

Yohn Royce huffed and climbed down from the dais, muttering something to himself, but even so he took a seat at one of the long tables. Sansa suspected his promise to leave was an empty threat. She turned her attention back to Daenerys Targaryen as she strode through the great hall with Jorah Mormont. The latter had been banished from the North by her father – was this the kind of person the Dragon Queen associated with? Sansa knew Lord Royce had every right to be displeased with the situation, but Sansa couldn’t refuse the woman’s help – and if that meant biting her tongue and smiling until her face hurt, so be it. She would suffer for the North’s benefit.

She watched as a young girl stepped in front of their path, and Sansa had to stifle a giggle as little Lyanna Mormont boldly looked up at her much taller relative. “Cousin, may I have a word?” Ser Jorah bowed his head and whispered something Sansa could not hear, before following Lady Lyanna out of the hall. The Dragon Queen continued on her own, but she was not alone for long – Sansa watched as Jon swiftly excused himself from his conversation with Ser Davos Seaworth and flocked to the Dragon Queen’s side. When she saw him, a genuine smile came to her face and Jon threaded his arm through hers, leading her down the rows.

Sansa frowned and picked up her flagon, taking a long sip of wine. _Jon is young and unmarried…Daenerys is young and unmarried…_ Damn Littlefinger, he was dead and she still couldn’t get his voice out of her head. And worst of all, she suspected he had been right. The way that Jon was looking at the Dragon Queen was not the look of someone hopeful for a successful alliance. He looked like he wanted to kiss her and marry her and have her babies. Sansa sighed. “Love. It will be the death of us all.”

“You always were a smart one.”

She turned her head and standing a few feet in front of her was Tyrion Lannister, the Queen’s Hand – and Sansa’s former husband. “Lord Tyrion,” She said. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“And you, Lady Stark – though I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.” He nodded to the empty chair next to her. “May I?”

Sansa glanced back over at her brother and Daenerys Targaryen. She’d saved the head chair for Jon, since he was King in the North, and the chair between herself and Jon for the Dragon Queen out of courtesy – but the two of them were languidly milling about and talking to various members of the Targaryen entourage. It was as if Sansa did not exist. “You may, my lord. I would relish in your company.”

The feast began, more wine was poured, and the servants brought out steaming plates of meat. Tyrion Lannister held up his flagon and clinked it against hers. “To the King in the North and the Mother of Dragons.”

Sansa grimaced. “Cheers.”

The Dragon Queen glided effortlessly from one table to the next, making sure her followers were eating and drinking but taking no refreshment herself. Jon followed her around like a puppy dog and Sansa caught him slide a hand onto her lower back – Daenerys Targaryen shook him off gently and gave him a warning look. _Well, at least she has the propriety to be discreet._ Sansa thought. Even her full blood siblings seemed to have abandoned her – Bran was nowhere to be found, and Arya had foregone her spot at the high table to chat eagerly with Queen Daenerys. She assaulted the woman with questions about her dragons and her life in Essos, but every once in a while she would cast a wary glance across the room at someone – Sansa couldn’t tell who, someone in the queen’s party it seemed. Whoever he was, Sansa thought he better cover his neck.

“So Lady Stark,” Tyrion said to her, cutting into a piece of meat. “I’m surprised not to see Lord Baelish lurking around here.”

“He won’t be lurking anywhere from where he is. He’s dead.”

Tyrion Lannister nearly choked. “Excuse me?”

“He’s dead.” Sansa repeated, even though she knew he heard her perfectly well the first time. “He was trying to turn me and my sister against each other, just as he had done with my mother and Aunt Lysa. He was a greedy, scheming opportunist with no compassion and no loyalty. People like that will not be tolerated in the North. Not while I rule Winterfell.”

Lord Tyrion looked impressed. “Can’t say I’m sorry to see him go.”

“I don’t think anyone is.” Sansa cast another glance across the room. Jon had his arm thrown around Arya as Daenerys Targaryen was telling some sort of story – and she was actually _smiling_. Sansa’s stomach churned. “He bent the knee to her.”

For once Tyrion Lannister had nothing to say, and that was all the answer she needed.

The servants took away the plates and brought out the sweets. They placed in front of Sansa a tray of lemon cakes, dusted with sugar, but her stomach felt heavy as a rock. “Let me ask you something, Lord Tyrion: I know you’re not stupid. In fact, I find you quite smart. What do you see in this Dragon Queen?”

Tyrion paused for a moment. “Lady Sansa…I hope you know that I respect you, and I respect your family. I know that my family has not treated you as you deserve, and I feel guilty for that.”

“You shouldn’t.” Sansa cut in. “You did the best you could. I wouldn’t have survived in King’s Landing without you.”

“Yes, you would have.” Tyrion said, his eye glimmering. “My point is, I would not put you in a position if I did not think it best for us all. I know Daenerys Targaryen, better than you. People talk about her like she’s larger than life – a dragonrider, a warrior, a _conqueror_. But I don’t like her for any of that. I like her because I think she has a genuine heart. She doesn’t judge people based on their lot in life or the status of their birth. Does she have a temper, some impulsive tendencies? Of course – she _is_ the blood of the dragon! But instead of acting on them, like her father would have, she surrounds herself with people who remind her of the bigger picture: freedom for the Seven Kingdoms. Freedom for us all, no matter color, sex or creed. That, Lady Stark, is why I trust the Dragon Queen.”

Sansa picked up her cup and took another long sip before answering. “And you think I should trust her as well?”

“I would like it if you would.” Lord Tyrion frowned and lowered his voice. “I’ve heard the stories, about what you’ve been through since we last saw each other. I am truly, truly sorry. You’ve endured things which no human should ever have to endure. After everything, I cannot blame you for not trusting anyone.”

Sansa smiled, but there was no joy behind it. “I do trust some people. Against my better judgment, Lord Tyrion, I trust you.” She plucked a lemon cake from the tray and bit into it. It tasted like nothing. “I’ll work with the Dragon Queen, Lord Tyrion. But it’s for the North, and my people. It’s not for her.”

* * *

**Samwell** :

“I’ve brought you some food from the feast.”

Sam looked up briefly from the book he was reading about the history of dragonglass as Gilly placed some bread and cheese wrapped in a napkin on the edge of the table. “I’m not hungry.”

“Samwell Tarly,” Gilly said, her voice dripping with surprise. “Refusing food? Are you ill?”

“I can’t eat, Gilly.” He said sharply, and he immediately shot her an apologetic look. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just thinking…about Jon.”

“What about him?” Gilly asked. She crossed the room to lift Little Sam out of his playpen and picked him up, the toddler burying his face into the crook of her neck.

“You know, about his real parents. Bran wants to tell him tonight. He’ll be devastated.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s so proud to be Ned Stark’s son and now, when he finds out the truth about Rhaegar and Lyanna…he’ll be so…”

“So what?” Gilly said as she detangled Little Sam’s grabby fingers from her hair. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters!” Sam persisted. “Now Ned Stark wasn’t his father, just his uncle. And his siblings aren’t his siblings, and his life as he knew it will be over…and _I_ have to tell him that Gilly!”

In response, she only huffed indignantly and crossed the room to place Little Sam down on Sam’s lap. “I still don’t think it matters. Look at Little Sam. Craster sired him, but Craster’s not his father – not his _real_ father, anyway. You are. Just like Ned Stark was Jon’s father, not Rhaegar. The man who raises you and makes you into who you are should be your father.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Or can you honestly look at Little Sam and tell me you don’t love him like he’s your son?”

Sam sighed and looked down at the child in his lap, causing Little Sam to smile up at him with a chorus of “Papa, Papa, Papa!” Sam smiled too and ruffled the boy’s hair. He couldn’t argue with Gilly’s logic, but still, this revelation would come with fallout. “I agree with you, but it’s more complicated than that. Little Sam’s parentage doesn’t make him a king.”

They were interrupted by a knock, followed by Bran Stark wheeling himself into the room before they could say ‘come in’. “Sam, it’s time.”

He didn’t want to have this conversation with Jon, but he had no other choice. With a reluctant sigh, he handed Little Sam back to Gilly and promised her he’d be back later, before pushing Bran out of the room. The feast was ending but he could still hear sounds of laughter and merriment drifting through the halls. Sam picked up Bran’s wheelchair and carried him down the stairs. On the bright side, carrying the damned thing was giving him the best exercise he’d had since he left the Wall…

They ran into Jon almost immediately and Sam’s heart jumped into his throat. Jon looked relaxed, almost _happy_ , with the Dragon Queen on his one side and his youngest sister on the other. “So,” Arya was saying to Queen Daenerys. “What’s it like to ride a dragon?”

The Dragon Queen’s amethyst eyes sparkled. Sam had heard people describe her as scary, tough, or even mad, but right now she looked so normal, like any other woman: happy, carefree, and flushed from wine and laughter. “It’s like nothing else in this world. When you feel that wind in your hair and that magnificent creature under your body, the rest of the world just melts away. It’s magic.”

“You’ll have to excuse my sister’s questions.” Jon said. He squeezed Arya’s shoulder and she playfully swatted his hand away. “Arya would love to ride a dragon.”

“Of course I would! Wouldn’t you, if you could?”

_Oh,_ Sam thought sardonically. _He could…_

It was at that moment that Jon spotted them and his eyes lit up. Sam felt like he might be sick. “Sam!” He broke away from the queen and his sister to hug him, and Sam could only weakly squeeze back. “Why didn’t you come to dinner? I looked for you. How are you? How are Gilly and Little Sam?”

“They’re both well. And I didn’t come down because I was, umm…” Sam gulped. “… _busy_.”

“We need to talk to you, Jon.” Bran cut in, his voice flat. “It’s important.”  

“Of course.” Jon didn’t seem to sense the urgency. “I’ll come up to your room in a few minutes…”

Bran cut him off. “Jon, it’s about your mother.”

Immediately, Jon’s face visibly paled, and he opened his mouth but no words came out. Sam felt like he might faint. Was this what having a heart attack felt like? The Dragon Queen also looked perplexed, so it was Arya who spoke. “Did you find her?” She asked Bran. “Do you know who she is?”

“Lady Arya,” Sam said tentatively. “With all due respect, I think it would be best if we had this conversation with Jon alone…”

Her eyes flared. “Jon wants me here. Right Jon?” When her brother didn’t immediately respond in the affirmative, she frowned. “Jon?”

“If Sam thinks it’s best that we speak alone, then we’ll speak alone.” Jon said once he finally found his voice. “I’ll find you later, little sister. Enjoy the rest of the feast.” Arya still seemed unsure, but she respected Jon’s wishes and turned to return to the great hall. The Dragon Queen smiled, tight-lipped.

“I suppose I should take my leave…”  

Sam was about to say ‘yes’, but Bran spoke first. “Actually, Your Grace, you should stay. There is something I need to tell you as well.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. _Something else?_ Bran hadn’t told him anything that Daenerys Targaryen needed to know. This would be a surprise to him as well, it seemed.

Jon placed a hand on Daenerys Targaryen’s arm and squeezed gently. “Please, stay.” She nodded at him and he let go of her arm to take her hand in his.

Sam felt horrible knowing he was about to shatter both of their worlds.

“My mother.” Jon said. “Who is she? Is she alive?” His voice was so full of hope.

Sam wet his lips. “She’s not alive.” Immediately, he could see Jon deflate. “She died giving birth to you. But she…she wanted you, Jon. She loved you.”

Daenerys squeezed Jon’s hand, and he took a deep breath. “Do you know her name? What she did, where she was from? Did…did my father love her, care about her, or was she just some…” He trailed off.

Before Sam could speak again, Bran cut him off. “She was no common whore. She was a highborn lady.” Sam wanted to be the one who said it – he knew he could break the news more sensitively than Bran could – but he couldn’t get the words in fast enough. “Jon, your mother was Lyanna Stark.”

The emotions flickered across Jon’s face in rapid succession – confusion, bewilderment, sadness, then denial. “No.” He said sharply. “No, that can’t be…”

“It is.” Bran said in a flat voice. “Eddard Stark was not your true father, Jon: he was your uncle. And after your mother died, he took you in and raised you as his own to protect you. He knew that Robert Baratheon would kill you if he found out who you really were. Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen, Jon. Your real name is Aegon Targaryen, and you are the rightful king of Westeros.”

Jon looked shattered. There was no other way to describe it. The Dragon Queen looked shocked too, her mouth hanging open, and she tried to touch Jon’s shoulder but he shook her off, looking directly at Sam. “I need to hear it from you. Tell me it’s not true.”

Sam gulped. “I can’t. He’s right, Jon. Rhaegar didn’t kidnap Lyanna – they were in love, and they were married. You were never a bastard, Jon. You were their trueborn son.”

A veil of silence hung thick and heavy in the air. Jon couldn’t meet Sam’s eyes and he stared at the floor instead. Slowly, Daenerys murmured his name. “Jon…”

He stepped away from her before she could touch him. “Daenerys, _don’t_.”

She looked hurt and confused. “Don’t what?”

“I don’t want to talk about this. Not now.” Sam opened his mouth – he felt like he needed to apologize, or maybe to tell Jon it was all some cruel joke, he would carry this secret with him if it would take away Jon's pain – but Jon only brushed past him as he stormed off, not meeting his eyes.

“Jon, wait!” The Dragon Queen called out, but before she could chase after him Bran reached out and caught her wrist, holding her in place.

“I need to speak with you too.”

“Can’t it wait?” Daenerys Targaryen said. “I need to go after him, I need to tell him – ” She looked over their shoulders but Jon was already gone. In that moment her queenly composure had fallen away and she looked so vulnerable, just a woman desperate to chase after the man she loved…

Bran looked unmoved. “It’s about your dragon.”

Daenerys Targaryen’s violet eyes went wide as they fixated on Bran, and her face turned nearly as white as her hair.

“The Night King has reanimated Viserion. The dead are marching this way.”

* * *

**Melisandre** :

The boat that carried her down the Rhoyne could only fit two, herself and the man rowing. She couldn’t call him a man, in truth, as he looked barely past puberty. There was a tattoo of a wheel upon his cheek that she could see when he turned his head, a mark she recognized and had seen on many other men during her short walk through the city of Volantis.

“How long were you a slave?”

The boy looked surprised by the question. “For as long as I can remember, m’lady. I started driving a _hathay_ when I was eight. Two years ago I was purchased by the Temple. It is because of the one true god, the Lord of Light, that I have been saved.”

She smiled and nodded. “The Lord’s mercy is great. He saved me too.”

“How did you come to become his messenger, m’lady?”

In her mind she could still see it, remember what it was like to be crouched naked in the dirty pen, trembling with fear, the purveyor’s voice calling out as she was dragged to the auction block. _Melony,_ _Lot Seven._ “I was a slave once, too. The Lord of Light freed me from my bondage and now I am his servant, no one else’s. He has always had a plan for me, as he has a plan for us all.” _I owe my life to him._ She added silently to herself. _And I intend to give it._

When they reached their destination, she exited the boat and crossed the plaza towards the red temple. The temple loomed high and she climbed the great steps one by one, staring up at the massive columns and buttresses that glowed red and gold in the setting sun.

Outside the doors to the temple stood a long row of soldiers, each of them staring blankly ahead. They wore armor painted with flames over their flowing oranges robes and carried in their hands spears that had their points shaved down to look like flames. Tattoos of flames across their faces and cheeks showed their status as Slaves of R’hllor. Two of them silently stepped forward to open the heavy double doors for her.

Inside there were so many candles and fire pits burning that it was impossible to count them all. Her footsteps echoed throughout the room as she walked forward purposefully, past the rows of men in flowing red robes and women in dresses that were the same color as the rubies on their throats.

Kinvara sat on the dais before them all, a great fire roaring before her, and when their eyes met she smiled and stood. “Lady Melisandre,” She said in her slow, deliberate voice. “I know you would come. The Lord showed me your voyage in the flames. He has protected you on your journey, I hope?”

Melisandre bowed her head. “Our Lord has been kind to me. I’m afraid I cannot stay long, however – the Lord has shown me my future, and I must return to Westeros as soon as possible.”

Kinvara raised an eyebrow. “Then why come here?”

Melisandre turned to address the crowd of red priests and priestesses who were staring at her in confusion. “The Lord of Light has brought me to his champion, Azor Ahai reborn. He has sent me here so that I may call upon the true believers to serve our god's chosen one in his journey.”

“His?” Kinvara repeated. “Daenerys Targaryen is the one who was promised. The Lord showed me.”

“She has a part to play. As does another – his name is Jon Snow.”

“Jon Snow?” someone repeated. A tall, dark-skinned man with a mane of white hair and a large belly stepped forward. “Before you swore that Stannis Baratheon was Azor Ahai. You were wrong then. How can you expect us to believe you now?”

Melisandre turned to address him directly. “I know now, dearest Moqorro, what the Lord has been trying to show me all along. He has given me a vision like no other. I saw a wooden face, corpse white with a thousand red eyes, and a boy with the face of a wolf, servants of the Great Other, our god's enemy of death and cold. I asked the Lord for a glimpse of Azor Ahai, to look into his eyes, and all he showed me was Jon Snow, his face flickering between man and wolf. I saw him clothed in black ice, a flaming sword in his hand.” The ruby at her throat glowed bright. “Jon Snow is Azor Ahai reborn, but Daenerys Targaryen has her part to play as well. For theirs is the song of ice and fire.”


	3. Ties That Bind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion and Daenerys plot their next move; Gendry and Arya catch up; Brienne sees a face from her past; Jon reacts to the revelation about his parentage.

**Tyrion** :

The moment Daenerys finished talking, he immediately crossed the room and poured himself a glass of wine.

“So Snow’s a secret Targaryen, eh?” Tyrion sighed. “No wonder you fucked him. It’s in your blood.” Daenerys scowled at him in response, and he took a long sip of wine. “Sorry, humor is my coping mechanism.”

“This is serious. He wouldn’t even look at me…” Daenerys looked uncertain, an emotion he wasn’t used to seeing on the seemingly fearless Mother of Dragons. “You don’t think he’s disgusted with me, do you? Because of our… _relation_?”

“I doubt it. The Starks may not have married brother to sister, but they’ve coupled up within their family tree as well: Lord Rickon Stark wed his two daughters to his two half-brothers. I think the boy is just very upset. He’s had quite a shock.” Tyrion had to admit, even _he_ hadn’t seen this revelation coming. _Who knew honorable Ned Stark was such a good liar?_ Though it made sense, he supposed – the dead man’s loyalty to his family was unyielding, of course he would’ve sacrificed his own reputation to keep his sister’s son safe.

Daenerys was pacing up and down the length of his chamber. Tyrion had already been half-asleep when she burst into his room at half past eleven without knocking, her face white and drawn. “You know what this means, don’t you? The Iron Throne isn’t mine. I’m not the rightful heir.”

“Do you honestly think Jon Snow is going to steal the damned thing from you?” Tyrion asked. “I’ve never pegged him as the power-hungry type – and I’m an excellent judge of character.”

“But it doesn’t belong to me. All these years, I’ve thought it was my birthright…” She shook her head. “But it was never my birthright, was it? It was always _Jon’s_.”

With a sigh, the Hand of the Queen placed his glass of wine down on his bedside table and leaned forward in his seat, one of his elbows resting on his thigh. “You’re not going to like this, but I’m going to raise the same proposal that I did that night on the ship to White Harbor: a marriage between you and Jon Snow. Or Aegon Targaryen, or Jon Targaryen…whatever it is we’re going to call him. The point is, with his claim and your vision, together you can unite the realm. You’ll be Jaehaerys and Alysanne born again.”  

Daenerys was silent for a long moment, covering her mouth with her hand. “Perhaps. A co-monarchy could be beneficial, but my lord…” She paused. “I’m more certain now than ever. I can’t marry him.”

“Why? Don’t tell me _you’re_ disgusted by your relation. I thought incest was a turn-on for Targaryens.” She scowled at him again. “Sorry, sorry, continue.”

“I would like to marry him. Very much so.” Daenerys said. “But I’m barren, Tyrion. If he were to marry me, our line would die out. The only chance for a Targaryen heir is if Jon marries someone else.” She paused and crossed her arms over her chest, thinking it over. “Perhaps the Stark girl. That way the North would still accept his rule, and he can have as many children as he desires.”

Tyrion nearly spit out his wine. “You can’t mean Lady _Sansa_ Stark, can you?”

“Of course that’s who I mean. It could work. She’d marry Jon – they’re only cousins by blood, as we now know – and one of her siblings could have the North…”

“ _Your Grace_.” Tyrion cut in sharply. “Lady Sansa is Jon’s _sister_ – his cousin by blood, yes, but his sister in his heart. He would never want to marry her, and surely she feels the same. And Sansa…” He paused and looked away. He knew that Daenerys didn’t know the full extent of Sansa’s previous history with marriages, but just the thought of forcing the girl into another political union made him feel like he might throw up. (Or maybe it was the wine doing that, but nevertheless…) “Sansa will never agree to a political marriage. And you know I care for you, Your Grace, but if you tried to force her I would never allow you to do it.” When he looked at Daenerys again, the Dragon Queen was standing with her back against the wall, and she was looking at him strangely, her violet eyes fixed intensely on him and a smirk toying with her lips for the first time since she came into the room. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Lady Sansa is your former wife.” Daenerys said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Do you love her still?”

“What? No, no that’s not it at all…”

“So you do not think she is beautiful?”

“Of course she’s beautiful, that cannot be argued, but…” Daenerys was smiling at him, one of her eyebrows raised. “She’s a girl.” Tyrion insisted. “A girl who has been through an awful lot in such a short life. She deserves happiness. She deserves better. When we were married she was miserable, and I would never put her through that again. She couldn’t wait to get away from me, and I can’t say I blame her.”

“She is no girl, Lord Tyrion.” The queen persisted stubbornly. It seemed that she had latched onto this subject and wouldn’t let go of it now. Tyrion knew how she was when she got an idea in her head. “She is nearly twenty, a woman grown. And when I saw you two conversing at the feast this evening, you seemed quite friendly.”

Tyrion looked away. They’d been discussing politics, that was all – Lady Stark respected his opinions just like he respected hers. Theirs was a tentative alliance to secure the future of humanity, and once these White Walkers were gone they’d surely go back to their respective lives and never cross paths again, except for maybe at an occasional political summit or obligatory visit to each other’s castles. They weren’t friends, and they were certainly not lovers. _Sansa may be beautiful, and smart, and kind,_ he thought bitterly. _But she could never love me. She’ll survive this and marry some handsome knight, surely, just as she’s always dreamed. That’s the life she deserves._

Before the queen could press the matter any further, there was a series of anxious raps at Tyrion’s chamber door. “I wonder if that’s your lover boy now.” Tyrion said dryly, and Daenerys shot him an annoyed look. “Come in!”

But it wasn’t Jon. Tyrion bolted upright in his chair when he saw a frustrated looking Sansa Stark standing in his doorway, an even angrier looking Arya Stark by her side. Tyrion didn’t know how much – if any – of their conversation they had heard. “Pardon our interruption Your Grace, Lord Hand.” Sansa said. Her voice was strained and this time she didn’t even force herself to smile. “But do you know where our brother happens to be?”

Tyrion shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lady Stark, but we have no idea where he’s run off to. We were trying to locate him as well.”

“What is it that Sam and Bran told Jon?” Arya asked Daenerys sharply. Though some Northerners seemed to avert their gaze and whisper to each other when they were in Daenerys’s presence, Arya Stark didn’t seem to fear her in the slightest and spoke to her with the same bold honesty she used with everyone. “Whatever was said, it’s clearly upset him. We’re his sisters, we have a right to know.”

Daenerys looked at him, violet eyes pleading. “She’s right. You know them better, you should be the one to say it.”

Tyrion sighed and took another long sip of wine. There was no easy way to break this news… “Remember that Jon is always going to be your brother.” He told the sisters. “This doesn’t change that.”

Sansa stepped forward, lips parted and blue eyes full of confusion. “What are you trying to say?”

For once in his life, Tyrion Lannister was at a loss for words. He met Sansa’s eyes, knowing he was about to turn her world upside down.

“Tyrion…” She said his name soft and slow: broken, pleading. “Tell me.”

_I’m so sorry, Sansa._ He thought. _You don’t deserve to go through this._

And then he told her the truth.

* * *

**Gendry** :

In the forge it was easy to lose track of time.

After the feast, as everyone else took to their beds, Gendry walked through the frozen courtyard seeking the familiar comfort of the hot forge. He couldn’t sleep, not yet. There was something about the sweat dripping down his brow, the soot under his fingers, the rhythmic banging of the hammer against metal that cleared his mind. The dragonglass they’d transported was waiting for him and he immediately got to work. They’d forged the dragonglass into spears, but that wasn’t enough – they needed swords, arrowheads, Dothraki _arakhs_. They needed dragonglass for every man, woman and child who could learn to hold a weapon. The dragonglass was brittle, so there was no way he could forge it into longswords, but he had another idea. You didn't need a large sword to kill a man. He thought about Arya's Needle, that skinny sword she always used to carry, and began to make a rapier. When he tempered the dragonglass in the fire and it did not shatter, he smiled to himself. Gendry lost himself in the work and hours went by in what felt like mere moments.

“You cut your hair.”

He nearly dropped a pair of tongs on his foot and cursed under his breath. He had not heard Arya enter and she was now leaning up against the doorframe, smirking at him. “It looks stupid.”

“ _Stupid_ , is that your favorite word?” Gendry dropped his tools down on the table and ran a hand through his closely cropped hair, almost self-consciously. When he returned to King’s Landing, he’d thought it was too dangerous to carry around proof of his parentage for all to see. After he found out who his father was, so many things began to make sense now: why he didn’t look like his mother, why Jon Arryn and Ned Stark had taken an interest in him, why Tobho Mott sent him away to join the Watch…

Arya closed the distance between them and leaned against the anvil. He could get a better look at her now, the candlelight casting a glow on the pale skin of her cheek. She was no longer the little girl he’d remembered, but that same strength, that same will to survive, still burned in her eyes. “I know it’s late, but I saw that your candle was still lit and I needed someone to talk to.”

There was no jest in her voice now. Impulsively, Gendry reached to touch her hand, but then he caught himself. Luckily, Arya didn’t seem to notice. _We’re not kids on the road anymore. I have to watch myself._ “Whatever it is...you can tell me, you know, if you want. I won't say anything. Who would I tell anyway?”

The story she told him was so fantastical, he could barely wrap his head around it at first. But he sat there and listened as she went through all the details, nodding his head in all the right places. “It doesn’t change anything for me.” Arya said when she finished. “Jon is my brother – my _favorite_ brother – and I’ll always love him…but I just can’t stop thinking about how upset he must be. All he’s ever wanted was to know his mother, and now he’s found out his whole life was a lie.”

“So this means Jon is the rightful king now, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose. I don’t know if he actually wants it though…” Arya shook her head. “Talk to me about something else. I can’t think about this anymore.”

“If that’s a command from m’lady…” He said cheekily, and Arya smacked him on the shoulder. “That was unladylike.”

“Shut up and tell me a story, stupid.”

Gendry paused, biting his lip. “Well, speaking of finding out about long lost parents…I know who my father was.”

Arya’s grey eyes lit up. “And you didn’t tell me this earlier? Gods, I was talking _forever_ , you could’ve interrupted me! Who was he?”

“…Robert Baratheon.” He waited for her to say something but there was only silence. “Arya? What are you thinking?”

She caught him off guard by laughing. “Your father was the bloody _king_! That’s why the Gold Cloaks wanted you…Joffrey…oh seven hells, it all makes sense.” A wicked gleam appeared in her eyes. “Perhaps I should start calling you ‘Your Grace’.”

Gendry scoffed. “Don’t you dare.”

“As you say Your Grace.” Arya teased, and this time it was his turn to push her away from him, which only made her laugh harder. Gods, was it good to hear that laugh…

They had a lot of catching up to do. Arya told him everything that had happened since they saw each other last: going on the road with the Hound, going to Braavos to find Jaqen and become a Faceless Man – “I never liked him,” Gendry interjected there, causing Arya to shush him – and then returning to Westeros to kill the Freys, and even running into Hot Pie. “I wanted to go to King’s Landing to find Cersei, but then I heard that Jon was home, here at Winterfell. And I realized I wanted to go home too. I knew that it wasn’t over, that it wasn’t going to go back to the way it was before, but…” She trailed off and peered at Gendry, eyes shadowed under her lashes. “I’m surprised you’re not running for the hills.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I just told you how I trained to steal people’s faces and massacred an entire family!”

Gendry smirked. “You don’t scare me, Arya Stark. And as for the Freys…sounds like they had it coming.”

A laughter burst from Arya despite herself. “You’re so stupid.” She said it with a smile on her face.

Then it was his turn. His story wasn’t as exciting as Arya’s: after Davos sent him off in that rowboat, he’d spent the next few years back at the Street of Steel, keeping his head down and listening to the whispers he heard when people came into the shop, biding his time and waiting.

(He didn’t tell Arya that he always listened closely to the gossip, hoping to hear her name, disappointment bubbling inside him when he didn’t.)

“I hated every day I was there.” He said truthfully. “Listening to what Cersei was doing, knowing the swords I made were going to be used to help the Lannisters, the people who killed my father, the people who killed your family…”

“Is that why you decided to join Jon?” Arya asked suddenly. She’d been quiet until now, sitting back and listening to him talk, and not interrupting or calling him ‘stupid’ for once in her life.

“Yes. That and…I knew he was your favorite brother. I feared you were dead, and I…I blamed myself, for leaving you alone. I thought if I helped Jon I could make it up to you. I should’ve gone with you to Winterfell the first time, like you wanted. But I thought if we came here we wouldn’t get to see each other anymore and…” Gendry trailed off. His face felt warm, but not from the heat in the forge. “I wanted to prove myself: to prove that I was worthy of you.”

For a long moment, Arya stared at him without saying anything, then she kicked off the wall and headed for the door. “The sun’s coming up, I should probably go…”

The words came flying out before he had the chance to think it through. “Do you want to come back tomorrow?” 

He could hear the smirk in Arya’s voice. “Maybe.” She paused and looked back over her shoulder, the sun rising in the open doorway behind her. “By the way – you were always worthy of me, stupid.”

* * *

**Brienne** :

“How many times must I tell you not to lunge?”

Podrick landed face down in the dirt – and not for the first time this morning, either – but to his credit he unflinchingly dusted himself off and stood back up. Brienne lifted her sword again and her squire followed suit. “Your enemy can’t anticipate your next move. You need to practice deflection.”

“But you’re not my enemy.” Podrick persisted. “I’m your squire.”

Brienne sighed. The boy’s heart was in the right place, bless him, but his progress was tedious at best. “ _Pretend_ , Pod.”

They’d been at it since the crack of dawn and now it was mid-morning. The yard was still relatively quiet, save for the methodic hammering of the smiths in the forge and the repeated clash of their swords. _Where is everyone off to?_ She wondered to herself. There was no sign of Lady Sansa on the parapet, and Brienne had not seen the King in the North or the Dragon Queen since the feast the night before.

“You could always fight me.” A voice said, and Brienne spotted a smug looking Sandor Clegane, leaning up against the wall. Just the sight of him with his scarred face and a sword strapped to him made Podrick’s face turn ashen.

“The Hound.” He gasped. “Err…Ser Clegane…Ser Hound?”

Clegane scoffed. “I’m no knight.”

“Actually,” Brienne interjected. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. Pod, you’ll go with Clegane this round. You’ll have a better chance with him anyway.”

Podrick smiled brightly and picked up his sword, but the Hound scowled at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just means I’ve beaten you in a fight before, that’s all.” She teased.

The Hound grunted and picked up his own sword. “I’m not going to go easy on the lad.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

Brienne stepped back and cleaned her sword while Podrick and the Hound began circling each other. Podrick held his sword tightly with both hands, warily waiting for the other man to make the first swing. “Well, what the fuck are you waiting for?” The Hound cursed. “We haven’t got all day!” Brienne chuckled to herself as Podrick weakly stabbed the air.

She returned Oathkeeper to its sheath and glanced around the courtyard, cold enough that she could see her breath. Across the yard two Dothraki were either practicing or brawling, their braids fluttering in the air as they dodged each other’s _arakhs_ , others cheering them on. Smoke was rising from the forge and one of the smiths came out to add more dragonglass spears to the ever-increasingly growing pile of weapons. Brienne recognized him – he was the one in charge of the weapons, the one who had come back with Jon Snow. She didn’t remember his name, but it was almost like she knew him. _Something about him is so familiar,_ Brienne thought. _But I don’t know what it is…_

The smith lifted his head, having caught her staring. “Need something?” He asked, only sounding half-annoyed. He was looking at her with an icy blue stare, and that was when it hit her. _Those eyes,_ Brienne thought to herself. _Are all Renly._

The very thought of Renly Baratheon stirred a deep sadness inside of her. What a king he would have made. Brienne had loved Renly deeply, desperately, even though she knew he would never love her back. _I would’ve died for him without hesitation._ The smith’s eyes were exactly like Renly’s, those beautiful blue eyes she’d looked into as he breathed his last. Of course, there was no way the smith could be Renly’s son, given the late man’s sexual preferences. But Brienne wondered…

“Yes,” She found herself saying, crossing the yard towards the smithy, leaving the Hound and Podrick alone to their sparring. Pod was letting out a yelp as he ducked to avoid being struck in the head. “I just wanted to enquire after the status of the weapons. I’m Brienne of Tarth, Lady Stark’s sworn shield.”

“I know who you are.” The smith said cheekily. “You’re not very hard to miss, m’lady.”

“You can call me Brienne. I’m no lady.”

He laughed. “I’ve heard that one before…”

“I’m sorry,” Brienne said. “I don’t think I remember your name.”

“Gendry – didn’t expect you to remember, though. Most highborns don’t.”

_A stubborn one,_ Brienne thought. _If I had any doubts he was a Baratheon…_ “Gendry…?”

The smith – _Gendry_ – squared his jaw. “Don’t have no family name, m’lady – err, _Brienne_. Suppose I could’ve been a Waters, if my father had acknowledged me…”

_His father._ Brienne had heard it said that before he died, Robert Baratheon sired a bastard in all of the kingdoms, from the North to King’s Landing to Dorne, but Joffrey had supposedly done away with them all. Unless one escaped…

“To answer your question about the weapons,” Gendry continued. “They’re coming along. I’ve been showing the Winterfell smiths here how to make them. You can have your pick, if you’d like. Everyone’s going to get one sooner or later.”

“Thank you.” He turned his body away from her and Brienne knew this was probably her cue to go and let him get back to work, but impulsively she reached out and touched his arm. Gendry looked at her confusedly. “I may be in Lady Stark’s service, but should you ever need anything, anything I could possibly help with, remember that I once served King Renly. As a Tarth, as a Stormlander, I am also honor bound to – ”

She was interrupted by the sound of Podrick excitedly calling her name. “Lady Brienne!” She turned her head away and saw that Podrick was waving at her, beaming in delight. “I did it! I deflected!” Except while Pod was distracted in his jubilation, the Hound grabbed him from behind and wrapped an arm around his neck, throwing him onto the ground. Pod landed on his back with a small “oomph”.

Brienne heard Gendry try to hold back a snigger. “That’s wonderful, Podrick!” She yelled back. “But next time, don’t celebrate until you’ve actually _won_ the fight.”

Gendry went back to his work and Brienne crossed back over to the training yard, where the Hound rolled his eyes indiscreetly as he helped Pod to his feet. “If this were a real fight, boy,” He said. “You’d be dead right now.”

“I’ve fallen down plenty of times,” Podrick said. “But I always get back up. Right, my lady?”

Brienne smiled and didn’t even bother to correct him on the 'my lady' this time. “That’s right, Pod. Now let’s go again.”

But before they could there was a low rumble, followed by a great roar. Immediately everyone around the yard stopped what they were doing and gazed upright, watching in mixtures of shock and awe as two massive, winged beasts began circling the towers of Winterfell. “Seven fucking hells,” Brienne heard the Hound mutter. “That’s a sight I never thought I’d see…”

These were Daenerys Targaryen’s dragons, no doubt. The Mother of Dragons had kept her children at a respectable distance from the castle until now, surely to appease the skeptical Northern lords, and now Brienne could examine them for the first time. One was a massive black thing, with red-tipped wings and spikes littering his long tail. The other was smaller, with scales of green and bronze, but still fearsome. _They could surely wipe out cities on their own, who knows what they can do together?_ Both of the dragons were crying out, almost as if they were in distress, almost as if it were a warning.

Another cry cut through the morning. “Riders! Riders at the gates!”

“Lannister cunts, probably.” The Hound whispered to Brienne. “I didn’t think the bitch would actually send them…”

“Quiet.” She snapped at him without thinking twice. Brienne hoped he couldn’t sense how fast her heart was beating in her chest. Despite what had happened at the dragon pit, despite how he had rebuffed her so coldly, she still felt a tinge of hope that she would get to see _him_ again. Brienne hated herself for it. _You’d be better off forgetting about him,_ She told herself. _Spare yourself the heartache. Haven’t you learned from Renly, stupid woman?_ And yet, that hope was clawing at her chest, ready to burst.

The gates opened and the occupants of the yard surged forward to meet them, except it was only two horses that rode through the gates, bearing no colors. “Peace, friends!” A man’s voice called out, but the guards reached out and grabbed the two riders roughly anyway, throwing them off their horses and onto the ground on their knees.

“Who is it?” Podrick asked, craning his neck to see.

Brienne shook her head. “I don’t know.”

She stepped closer. One of the guards was yelling something at one of the men, but she could barely hear, and the man had his hood drawn tightly around his face. “…what do you think you’re doing here?” She heard faintly. “…what was promised…how dare you…the King in the North will hear about this…”

The man on the ground held up his hands and kept his voice calm and controlled, despite the fact that he was now being kicked and screamed at. “We’ve come to help.”

For the second time in less than an hour, the hairs on the back of Brienne’s neck stood up from the recognition. _That voice…_ One of the guards grabbed the hooded man by the arm and when he did, the man’s sleeves pooled down to his elbows, exposing his hands – one normal, the other golden…

Brienne’s heart leapt into her throat. _Jaime._

The guard yanked down the hood, confirming what Brienne already knew, though gasps and whispers could be heard among the throng at the sight of Jaime Lannister’s face. “Kingslayer.” The guard spat. “Never trust an oathbreaker.”

The dark-haired man next to Jaime was pulled to his feet and he fought against the guard’s hold, kicking and squirming. Brienne thought she’d seen him before, at Riverrun, but she couldn’t recall his name. “Hey, watch it!” He snapped. “Is this how they treat their allies in the North?”

“You are no ally.” The guard holding him said. “How dare you show your faces here?”

The dark-haired man continued to argue while the second guard hoisted Jaime to his feet, kicking him in the shin for good measure. Jaime only laughed dryly and did not fight it, his eyes scanning the assembled crowds…

He stopped. Brienne knew he had spotted her. She swallowed the lump in her throat as green eyes met blue, and she saw the corners of Jaime’s lips turn up. He was getting hauled off by guards and yet he was actually _smiling_ at her!

She wanted to call out for him but then the guard pulled him forward, shoving him towards Winterfell. “Move it, Kingslayer! The King in the North shall decide what to do with you…”

* * *

**Jon** :

He hadn’t slept at all last night.  

After he left Sam, Bran and Dany, he just wanted to get away. He went to the stables, saddled his horse and rode until the black of night, trying to focus on nothing but the sound of the hooves and the feeling of the reins, even though there were a million thoughts buzzing around his head.

Once he was certain no one was looking for him anymore, he turned around and headed for the Winterfell crypts. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, not even Daenerys. _Especially_ not his sisters (he would not call them his cousins, he _wouldn’t_ ). Jon didn’t know how he was supposed to look Sansa and Arya in their eyes and tell them the truth about him. Though he suspected Bran would probably get to them first…

In the crypts he found his father’s statue and paused in front of it, staring at Ned Stark’s stone eyes. Jon understood why he did what he did – Robert Baratheon did not have a high opinion of Targaryens, to say the least, and would’ve killed him if he’d known. He could even understand why Ned had not told Lady Catelyn, since they’d been married for such a short time when Jon was born, and Lord Eddard needed her to believe the lie if he wanted others to believe it. _But why not me?_ Jon thought. _Why didn’t you ever tell me?_ How was it that in sixteen years, Ned never found the moment to tell him who his mother was?

He could hear the dead man’s voice in his head. _The next time we see each other…we’ll talk about your mother…I promise…_

Would they have talked about it, if they saw each other again? Jon supposed so, Ned Stark had always been one to keep his word. And yet still, why couldn’t Ned have told him _before_ he joined the Night’s Watch? Surely that would’ve been a good time.  

Now, Jon moved away from Ned Stark’s statue and tentatively stood in front of the stone woman next to him. Lyanna Stark. His mother…

The sight of the statue he’d seen so many times now made tears immediately rush to Jon’s eyes. _All these years I imagined what it would be like to see her face…to have her wrap her arms around me…and that will never happen._ But at the same time, he knew now his mother had loved him, had wanted him, and had ensured that he would be protected before she died. _I just wish I could’ve known her._ He thought. _Just one memory…that’s all I wanted…_

Then there was the matter of his father, Rhaegar Targaryen. He’d heard so many stories about how evil Rhaegar was, about how he kidnapped and raped Lyanna, but now Jon knew that none of it was true. What had Rhaegar been like? What did he like to do, what kind of person was he? He wondered…

He snapped out of his reverie when he heard the sound of paws on the stone floor and then his great white direwolf appeared in the torchlight. “Ghost? Boy, what have you been doing?” Jon knelt down to scratch the wolf behind the ears, just as another figure appeared at the bottom of the stairs, and Jon could see the hem of a dress in his line of vision.

“Jon?”

He sprang to his feet at the sound of the soft voice and Daenerys swept in, crossing the crypt to stand before him. Ghost swiftly abandoned Jon and nestled in Daenerys’s skirts, rubbing against her torso. Dany laughed quietly and pet his head.

Jon gulped, his throat feeling dry. “He seems to like you.”

“And I like him as well.” Dany said. “Just as I like his owner.”

Silence hung heavily between them then, and Dany smiled weakly as Ghost burrowed his face deeper into her stomach, her hand moving up and down his back as she stroked his fur gently.

Her voice sounded uncharacteristically timid when she spoke again. “Are you disgusted with me?” She asked. “Because of our…relation?”

“I could never be disgusted with you, Daenerys. I’m sorry if I made you think that…” It was not their newly discovered blood ties which bothered Jon. He knew Targaryens had married within their family for centuries: Rhaenyra Targaryen married her uncle Daemon, and Prince Aemon Targaryen wed his half-aunt Jocelyn Baratheon, just to name a few. Though the Starks didn’t intermarry as much or to the same degree, even the first Sansa Stark and her sister Serena had married their father Lord Rickon’s half-brothers, Jonnel and Edric. “It’s upsetting, that’s all.” Jon finally said. “Knowing my father was not my real father…”

“But he was your real father.” Daenerys interrupted. “He raised you, he loved you. He was your father, Jon. In every way that mattered.”

He supposed he could not argue with her. He wouldn’t be the man he was today without Ned Stark. _I’ll always think of him as my father._ He silently decided. _Just as I’ll always think of Arya and Sansa as my sisters, and of Bran and Robb and Rickon as my brothers…_ Ned had only kept the truth from him for his own protection. None of that mattered now.

Jon nodded slowly and wet his lips. He was unsure if he wanted to ask her this question or not, worried he may be displeased with her answer. “I know you never met him, but do you know any stories about him? Rhaegar?”

When he looked at Dany again, she was smiling slightly. “I knew people who knew him. They said he was a great warrior, but he never liked killing. He liked books – and singing.”

A laugh burst from his lips. “ _Singing_?”

Daenerys nodded. “He played the harp. He used to disguise himself and go into the city to sing in the streets – not for money, just for his own amusement, and to make the people smile. Everyone says he was so good. Good and kind, and gentle. I wish I had met him…”

Jon sighed. “Me too.” 

Ghost stepped aside now so Daenerys could approach Jon, and she gently slipped her hand into one of his. “I bet you’re a lot like him. You’re good and kind and gentle too, Jon Snow. And you will make a wonderful king.”

_King?_ He shook his head. No, he had been King in the North but that was done now. It didn’t matter to him that his claim was better than hers – the Iron Throne had always been her desire, not his “I don’t want the throne, Dany. I never wanted any of this.”

“But it's your right, Jon. You are everything a king should be. All those people out there, all those people suffering under Cersei Lannister right now – you could help them.  Don't you remember what you said to me? You can build a world that's different from the one they've always known.”

Jon hesitated. Tyrion told him that King's Landing had a million people in it, a million people who were suffering, a million people whose lives were on the line...He wanted to help them, yet still he was unsure if he was the right one to do it. Never did he ever think he'd become King of Westeros.“You are the one who wants the throne, not me. And we just agreed that my true parentage shouldn't change anything, so why should it change this? You should take the throne from Cersei.”

“Oh, and I will.” The Mother of Dragons said assuredly. “But once we defeat the Night King, you’re going to take it with me – and rule by my side.”

He looked at her, his mouth agape, trying to study her face as best as he could in the dim light of the crypt. “Are you proposing to me?” He realized then that he was hoping she would say ‘yes’. He regretted running away to hide now instead of talking to her in the first place. _Gods be damned,_ He thought. _I love her. I’ve loved her for so long, possibly since I met her…_

Jon swore he saw her expression falter at the question. “We can’t.”

He touched her face and pressed his palm against her cheek, cupping her face. “Why not? You just said our relation doesn’t matter to you. And I’m afraid I’m already hopelessly in love with you, Daenerys Stormborn.” He kissed her brow and her chin quivered, like she was resisting the urge to cry. “I’m sorry I ran away. I needed to think. But now I know for sure, none of this changes the fact that I love you.”

He felt wetness on his hand, slipping down her cheek. “And I love you, Jon Snow. But I…I cannot have children, I told you that. And you can still marry another and have a child of your own to succeed us. You need an heir. You _deserve_ an heir. For the throne, for the dynasty, we can’t marry.”

“Fuck the throne.” He found himself saying, and even Daenerys seemed surprised by the conviction in his voice. “All my life I’ve done what honor commanded, and for once I want to do something for me. No one else could make me as happy as you could.” He hesitated. “And even if you are barren…it doesn’t matter to me. I accepted long ago that I would never father children, and we could still find an heir in other ways.” It was tempting to imagine having a child of his own - a son to name for his lost father or brothers, a daughter who would be wild like Arya or a lady like Sansa - but in his mind that child had Dany's violet eyes, or her laugh, or her smile. It wasn't another woman's children he wanted.

Daenerys looked away from him and went back to petting Ghost, her resolve seeming to waver. She opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “Jon…as much as I want to accept you…”

They were interrupted by the sound of feet coming down the stairs. “Your Grace?”

They pulled apart immediately, as if they were children caught doing something wrong, and Jorah Mormont appeared at the foot of the stairs. “Your Grace, my lord…Jaime Lannister is here. Your presences are required in the great hall. _Immediately_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know we didn't get Dany's thoughts on the Viserion reveal this chapter, but it didn't seem to come organically since we weren't getting her POV. You'll see that next chapter. I didn't want Jon to dwell on the parentage reveal for too long either, since we've got to keep the plot moving, but I didn't want to brush over it at that same time. Hopefully that came across and you'll see Jon trying to reconcile both parts of himself moving forward.
> 
> Interestingly the Brienne section didn't have that scene with Gendry originally, and I doubt we'll ever see them converse in canon, but they actually do meet in the books. Canonically Gendry is said to look like Renly - so much so that when they meet in the books Brienne initially thinks he is Renly - and idk, I just really wanted to write that scene!
> 
> Next chapter: Jaime, Brienne, Dany, and Theon's POVs.


	4. Trials and Tribulations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime is summoned for judgment; Brienne pays a visit; Daenerys receives a shock; Theon faces his uncle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GoT won big at the Emmys last night, so let's celebrate with another chapter. Enjoy!

**Jaime** :

The doors to the great hall of Winterfell opened, revealing a room packed tight with bodies, the conversations of the Northern lords dying when they saw him standing in the open doorway. Before he could take one step, the guard kicked him in the back and Jaime fell to the ground, flat on his belly. He heard someone laugh and his face burned hot with anger – and a bit of embarrassment.

He was pulled roughly to his feet and marched further still. On his left Bronn was arguing with the guard holding him, demanding to be unhanded. Jaime did not bother to fight.

As he was led forward people turned to openly stare at him: men, women and even children. One of the lords spat at him, and the saliva landed on Jaime’s cheek. Because his hands were held behind his back, he could not even wipe it off. Two squires were laughing at him – _squires_ , for crying out loud – and there was a little Northern lady towards the front of the room who was glaring at him. If looks could kill, Jaime knew he’d be dead.

On the dais, the bastard Jon Snow sat in the lord’s chair, his white direwolf snarling at his feet. Next to him was a fierce, silver-haired woman who could only be Daenerys Targaryen. Standing behind Jon were his sisters, Lady Sansa’s mouth forming a line, and Arya Stark looking like she wanted to murder Jaime with her bare hands. Next to her was the boy, Bran Stark, and Jaime’s stomach churned. _I’ve not seen the boy since that day._ He thought. _The day I tried to kill him._ He saw the boy’s wheelchair, and the cold, neutral expression on his face, and felt sick.

He looked to Daenerys Targaryen’s left. There was his brother, Tyrion looking at him with pity and sorrow in his eyes, and Jaime had to turn away. _I threatened to kill him the last time I saw him and yet he still feels bad for me._ But inside Jaime knew that was one threat he never would’ve followed through with. Even though he meant it at the time – or thought he meant it – he never would’ve been able to raise a hand to his brother. _I think he may have been the only one in our family who really loved me._ The thought was jarring to him.

There was Varys the Spider, that smug schemer, and Jaime almost wanted to congratulate him for switching sides so effortlessly. A foreign woman stood loyally by the Dragon Queen, as well as the captain of her Unsullied, and there was a man with a bear sigil who had to be Jorah Mormont.

The guard threw him onto his knees at the foot of the dais, so that he was looking up at Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow, and all the rest. Bronn was dropped down next to him and the sellsword cursed as he hit the ground. “Seven hells! You might as well take a club to my knees, why don’t you?”

The Dragon Queen and the Bastard of Winterfell seemed to take no interest in Bronn’s complaints. “Jaime Lannister,” Jon Snow said. “We meet again – without your sister’s army.”

“My apologies,” Jaime said dryly. “It seems my sister is a lying bitch who can’t be trusted.”

There was laughter from some in the crowd, but the Dragon Queen’s eyes were flashing angrily. “This is a joke to you?”

“No, Your Grace – ”

“Silence.” Even though she was such a petite woman, her voice commanded authority. “You mock me, ser. Did your sister Cersei send you here, to have a good laugh at my expense? ‘Oh, look at the little Dragon Queen. She actually believed us when we said we’d help her – what a pretty little idiot!’ Is that it?”

“Your Grace – ”

“Not another word.” Arya Stark snapped at him. “No one cares what you have to say.” Jaime had assumed that she was dead until today, and it seemed he’d underestimated her. The little girl was gone, and a vengeful woman remained.

“Your Graces,” Bronn piped up. “Why are we being punished? Just because Cersei’s a cunt – ”

“You will not speak unless you’re spoken to.” Daenerys Targaryen ordered. “Is that clear?” Bronn closed his mouth and sat back on his haunches.

“My queen,” Tyrion’s voice cut into the conversation. “If I may – Cersei broke her promise, I know, but Ser Jaime _has_ come after all. He has many faults, but he is a great fighter. Can we afford to lose him at such a vital time, with the Night King threatening us all?”

“He _was_ a great fighter.” Some lord or other called out. “How is he supposed to slay anything with only one hand?” There was more laughter and Jaime stared down at the floor, a lump in his throat.

Daenerys Targaryen ignored their gibes. “My dear Hand, I understand where you're coming from. If Cersei did not want Ser Jaime coming to Winterfell, I would imagine she was not too happy with his decision, to say the least. But there’s more to consider, and many more crimes to his name. Like killing my father, King Aerys, for starters.”

The words poured from Jaime’s mouth before he could stop them. “Your father was mad. He was a danger as long as he lived.”

The guard grabbed him and slapped him across the face.

The Dragon Queen sat back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. “You conspired with the Boltons and the Freys to murder the Starks.”

The sting from the slap was now only a dull ache, but his indignation burned. “I had nothing to do with that!” The guard moved forward, as if to strike him again. “Hit me if you must, it’s the truth!” The guard looked to Jon Snow, as if silently asking him if he should strike Jaime again or not, and when the man shook his head the guard dropped his hand, looking disappointed.

“Regardless,” The King in the North continued. “Many here wish us to hang you as an oathbreaker, Ser Jaime. Do you have any defense?”

 _Does it matter what I say? They already think I’m guilty. Seven hells, maybe I am._ “I had my reasons.”

“The things I do for love.” Jaime felt a shudder run through him and he looked over at Bran Stark, who was only staring at him blankly. “That’s what you said to me, wasn’t it? That day in the tower?”

“The tower?” Arya Stark spat, glancing back and forth between her brother and Jaime. Her gaze settled on the latter, and Jaime saw pure fury in her eyes. “You were the one! You _pushed_ him!”

It wasn’t a question, but Jaime looked at the ground and answered all the same. “I did.”

The Northern lords began to yell then, a thunderous roar rising through the room. “Traitor!” they screamed, and “Kingslayer!”, and “Give us his head!”

Jon Snow silenced them all by holding up his hand. He looked at Jaime, thinly veiled anger in his grey eyes. His little sister may have been the one reaching for her sword, but Jaime could tell that Jon Snow wanted him dead just as much. “You pushed my brother – then only a boy of ten – and hoped he would die. You did not succeed in killing him, but you did paralyze him. That’s attempted murder, Ser Jaime. What do you have to say?”

 _I was under Cersei’s spell._ He thought. _I loved her so blindly and so foolishly that it didn’t matter to me that he was a boy. All I cared about was Cersei, all I thought about was Cersei, and she returned my blind loyalty by casting me out and threatening to kill me…_ Still, he knew that was no excuse. “It was wrong.” Jaime said. “I know it was wrong. And if you wish to kill me, then fine. I knew there was a chance this might happen, and I will die gladly. I know I deserve it. But I also know that we are on the brink of a bigger war, a war between the living and the dead, and I will fight besides you in that war if you’ll give me the chance. If I must die, let me die with a sword in my hand.”

Silence. The Dragon Queen looked at Jon Snow and they stared at each other for a moment, neither speaking. Arya Stark whispered something in her brother’s ear, her hand on the hilt of her sword, but Lady Sansa pulled her back in line.

“My lord Hand,” Daenerys said to Tyrion, but as she spoke she was staring at Jaime, not him. “Do you wish for your brother to live?”

Tyrion hesitated, as if it were a trick question. “He is my brother, Your Grace. And he…he showed me kindness, back when no one else did. So…yes, I want him to live.”

“May I also speak on behalf of Ser Jaime?”

Every head in the room turned, including Jaime’s. His eyes landed on Brienne of Tarth, separating herself from the crowd to address the Dragon Queen directly. _Same stupid, stubborn, brave wench._ Jaime thought. _Trying to get herself killed for me again._

“Speak, Lady Brienne.” This time it was Sansa Stark who spoke. “You know we all trust your counsel.”

Brienne paused and wet her lips. She glanced at Jaime, biting her lip. “Lady Sansa, before I was in your service, I served your mother Lady Catelyn, gods rest her soul. She asked me to take Ser Jaime to King’s Landing and in that time I spent many months in his company. I’ll confess I did not like him at first, hated him in the fact. But he saved me more than once, something which I’m sure many men of greater renown would not have done. He lost his sword hand because he was protecting me from being raped. Another time, he put his own life on the line to save me from certain death and nearly died in the process. He did those things because, deep down, I believe Jaime Lannister is a man of honor. I hope in time you will see that as I have.” Then, with one last look at Jaime, she stepped back in line and turned away, bowing her head.

Sansa Stark turned to look at her brother. “I hold no hatred for Jaime Lannister.” Bran Stark said in that same monotonic voice. “It was meant to be this way, one step in a larger journey. And after all…why walk when you can fly?”

Jaime didn’t know what that meant, but if the boy was speaking in his favor, he wouldn’t complain.

Sansa Stark whispered to Jon Snow, who then turned to Daenerys Targaryen and whispered to her. She nodded solemnly, and then looked at Jaime. “I will not be killing you tonight, Kingslayer, nor your friend here. I know my Hand loves you, and I trust Lady Brienne’s testimony – she has proven herself to be honorable and loyal, unlike yourself. However, you best remember that this does not mean I have forgiven you.” She nodded at the guards, who promptly ripped Jaime and Bronn to their feet, and Jaime felt as if his shoulder was nearly dislocated. Pain flared up in his arm and he had to bit his lip to prevent from crying out.

The Dragon Queen gave the command: “Throw them in the dungeons.”

* * *

**Brienne** :

As she walked down the dark steps toward the dungeon, she heard the sound of singing, a voice getting louder and clearer the further she walked.

“ _A bear there was, a bear, a bear! All black and brown and covered with hair! The bear, the bear! Oh come they said, oh come to the fair! The fair? Said he, but I’m a bear! All black and brown and covered with hair!_ ”

The dungeons were dark and she had only a small candle to light her path. Brienne had been expecting it to be cold down there, but it was actually quite warm, and she recalled it having been mentioned that Winterfell was built on a hot spring. _They won’t freeze to death down here, at least._ “Jaime?” She called out softly.

“Wench? Is that you?”

Brienne reached the bottom of the stairs and held up her candle for light. She saw Jaime curled up inside one of the cells, his head pressed against the bars, but he visibly perked up at the sight of her. In the cell opposite his, his companion was singing loudly and off-key, the source of the song she’d heard.

“ _Oh, sweet she was, and pure and fair! The maid with honey in her hair! Her hair! Her hair! The maid with honey in her hair!_ ”

Jaime nodded towards him. “You remember Bronn.”

“From Riverrun,” Brienne said. “Yes.” The other man smiled at her in acknowledgment but continued on with his song.

“ _The bear smelled the scent on the summer air! The bear, the bear! All black and brown and covered with hair!_ ”

She recognized the song: "The Bear and the Maiden Fair". The Bolton soldiers had been singing it when they took her and Jaime to Harrenhal, and it was the song which inspired them to throw her in that awful bear pit. _Jaime saved my life that day._ She knew she would never be able to hear this song again without thinking about that, the moment her feelings towards him began to soften.

Brienne walked over to Jaime’s cell and hesitated, gripping one of the bars and looking down at him. He was rubbing his shoulder, as if in pain. _Those guards manhandled him, surely._ “I…” She stuttered. “I came to see if you were all right.” Immediately she thought it was a stupid thing for her to say. _Of course he’s not all right, he’s imprisoned and the Mother of Dragons wants him dead._

Jaime laughed humorlessly. “My head is still attached, at least.” He paused, looking up at her. “What are you doing here, wench?”

What was she doing here? She wasn’t even sure she knew. After Jaime and Bronn had been taken away and everyone else left the great hall, she’d started to walk back to her quarters only to find her feet carrying her here, hearing herself telling the gaoler that she needed to see the prisoners on Lady Sansa’s orders. But she hadn’t stopped to think through what she was going to say when she saw Jaime. _We exchanged harsh words last we spoke. And yet here I am, putting my neck out for him gladly…_ “Why did you change your mind?”

“Well, if Brienne of Tarth is saying ‘fuck loyalty’, it must be serious.”

“Don’t joke.” Brienne said. “I want a real answer.”

“ _Oh, I’m a maid, and I’m pure and fair! I’ll never dance with a hairy bear! A bear, a bear! I’ll never dance with a hairy bear!_ ”

Jaime muttered under his breath and picked up an iron cup from the floor, chucking it through the bars with his good hand. It bounced off the floor in Bronn’s cell and landed near his feet, startling him. “Can you shut up?”

Bronn huffed. “It’s not my fault there’s nothing to do in this cell.”

“Just for a moment?” Brienne asked him. “I promise we’ll be quick.” After a moment’s hesitation, Bronn leaned up against the wall and continued to hum quietly to himself.

Now that they could actually hear each other, Brienne placed the candle down on the floor and grabbed the bars of the cell with both hands. “Why are you really here?”

Jaime smiled at her with that teasing, stupid, _handsome_ half-smile. “I thought of a maid with a sword called Oathkeeper.”

She touched her scabbard without realizing it at first. _He was the one who gave me this sword,_ She thought, recalling that day when she left King’s Landing, how she looked over her shoulder as she rode away and found him already staring. She wondered where Jaime’s matching blade was – it had been taken from him when he arrived at Winterfell.

“Cersei never loved me.” Jaime continued. “At least, not as much as she loved herself. It’s time I stop following her example…and start following yours.”  

Brienne could feel her cheeks grow flushed. In the adjacent cell, Bronn was continuing to sing “The Bear and the Maiden Fair” quietly to himself. “I’ll get you out of here.” She told Jaime. “I’ll talk to Lady Sansa, and the Queen. I promise.”

“Well,” He laughed. “I know better than to doubt you, wench.”

Brienne picked up the candle again and hesitated, wondering if there was something more she should say. “I’ll be back later. I’ll try to sneak you some blankets, and maybe a decent meal.”

“Until then, wench.”

She turned to go, cursing herself internally for not thinking of something better to say. _What has gotten into me today? I’m not in my right mind._

“Brienne?”

The single word made her stomach flutter. He hadn’t called her “wench”, he’d called her by name. “Yes Ser Jaime?”

He hesitated. “Thank you. For what you said.”

Luckily her back was turned, so he could not see the smile that spread across her face in that instant. “You’ve saved my life quite a few times. I figured I should return the favor.”

* * *

**Daenerys** :

“I can’t _believe_ this.”

Daenerys paced up and down the length of the solar, but no matter how many times she did it her anger did not lessen. A day after Jaime Lannister’s arrival, she was still furious, and wanted nothing more than to fetch Drogon and fly to King’s Landing, to burn Cersei Lannister in her keep. _But I can’t do that._ She reminded herself. _As satisfying as it would be to kill that woman, I need to think of the people. Not my petty vengeance._

“Your Grace,” Tyrion said. “Sit down, have a glass of wine. You need to calm your nerves.”

“I’m not thirsty.” She reached the end of the solar and turned to make another lap. “I never should’ve trusted a word out of that woman’s mouth. When this war with the Night King is over, I will make her regret her insolence. Perhaps I should send her her brother’s head as a gift…”

She looked at Tyrion, his face drawn. “Your Grace, with all due respect, Jaime is my brother. I know him better than you do, and I believed him when he said he was here to help. And he could prove a valuable asset when it comes time to challenge Cersei – he knows her strengths and her weaknesses better than anyone. We could exploit that.”

He was right, Daenerys knew. _I must not act in anger. I must think of the larger plan._ She stopped pacing and leaned up against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. Truthfully she had too much on her mind. She kept thinking about being in the crypts yesterday with Jon, and how much she had wanted to accept his proposal. It wasn’t the matter of an heir that was stopping her, not really – there were other ways to choose a successor, Jon and Tyrion had both told her so – but she felt that Jon deserved to have a child of his own someday. _Even if that child is not with me. A queen has to put others before herself._

The door opened and Varys appeared, swooping in smelling of perfume, robes fluttering. “Have you reached a decision, Your Grace?”

Daenerys sighed. “The Kingslayer shall live – for now, at least.” At her words, she could see Tyrion exhale.

Varys nodded his head. “A wise decision, my queen. There will be time to deal with Jaime Lannister, now it’s best to focus on the Jon Snow problem.”

Tyrion’s eyebrow raised. “How do you know about that?”

“Very little gets past me, my lord Hand. And servants always like to eavesdrop and gossip – you just have to know when to listen.”

 _Everyone will know the truth soon._ She thought. It was hard to keep secrets when the walls seemed to have ears. “Either way,” Daenerys said. “This changes nothing. Jon Snow and I will proceed with our alliance as before, and when the time comes we will take the Seven Kingdoms together.”

“So you’ll marry him?” Varys asked.

“I told her to,” Tyrion said. “But she’s refused.”

“Why? You need his claim. He is Rhaegar’s trueborn son, and you are only Rhaegar’s sister.”

“I know that.” Daenerys said. “Jon Snow and I have agreed that it is better for the Seven Kingdoms that we stand together, not apart. We’ll be co-monarchs, to assure an alliance between north and south, but there will be no marriage. He’ll produce a Targaryen heir on his own, with another woman.” She was using the term ‘agreed’ loosely, since Jon wasn’t entirely sold on becoming king, and still was hoping she’d change her mind about marriage. _In time he’ll see surely. He’s a man of duty, and there’s no place for love in politics._

(And yet despite all that she still had half a mind to run to him at that instant and accept him, as unwise as it would be.)

“Very well.” Varys sighed. “If we’re proposing other potential brides for Jon Snow, then I suggest the Stark girl.”

Tyrion picked up the flagon of wine, only to find it empty. “I won’t hear any talk of that. Sansa won’t marry Jon.”

“Why wouldn’t she?” Varys retorted. “The Northerners will learn of his parentage, my lord, soon I suspect. If he marries his cousin, at least they know his heir will be just as much Stark as Targaryen.”

“Sansa will never agree to it. _I_ would advise her not to agree to it.”

“My lord Hand, don’t let your feelings color your judgment.”

“My _feelings_? I have no feelings!”

There was a knock at the door then, and Daenerys was thankful for the distraction. She did not want to hear Tyrion and Varys resurrect the same old conversation. “Enter!”

One of her handmaids swept into the room, carrying a large glass of wine in her hands, and Tyrion sat up a little straighter at the sight. “Oh sweet lady, how did you know that I needed a refreshment?”

“I was told to bring this glass to the queen, my lord Hand.” The handmaid said. “To calm her nerves.”

“I’m quite all right, Kira. Lord Tyrion may have the wine if he wants.”

Tyrion reached out to take it, but immediately Varys slapped his hand away, spilling a few drops of wine on the floor. “Hey!” Tyrion said. “What was that for?”

“I think you’ve had quite enough, my lord Hand. You’ll need to keep your wits about you.”

“I have plenty of years of practice on how to operate while drunk.” Tyrion said, but he leaned back in his chair and relented. “You never let me have any fun, Spider.”

Varys smiled tight-lipped. “You can celebrate after the crown is on our queen’s head.”

The handmaid turned to Daenerys. “Is there anything else I can bring you, my queen?”

“There is nothing I require. Why don’t you take a rest for a few hours?” The handmaid curtsied, thanking her for her generosity, and then left the room.  

Once the three of them were alone, Daenerys pushed off the wall and moved to sit next to her Hand at the table. “We can discuss marriages and alliances once the Iron Throne is won. Right now, our war with the Night King should be our first priority.”

“Very well.” Tyrion said, then he hesitated. “Your Grace, if you don’t mind me asking…do you feel well?”

“As good as I can be, given the circumstances. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that…” Tyrion sighed. “You haven’t talked about it much. The news about your dragon.”

At his words, Daenerys’s stomach dropped. Her poor, sweet Viserion. The night that Bran Stark told her what happened to him, she had cried herself to sleep. Viserion had always been the kindest of her dragons and now not only had he been so cruelly ripped from his mother and brothers, he was being used against her by the Night King. _A dragon is not a slave,_ She thought. _But now my Viserion is being used as one…_ Worst of all was the knowledge that now _she_ was going to have to kill him again in the forthcoming battle.

Daenerys shook her head. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure, Your Grace?” Varys asked. “You’ve barely eaten. Should I go to the kitchens and summon some - ?”

“It’s nothing.” Daenerys insisted forcefully. “Do either of you know how we are progressing with the dragonglass?”

“The weapons are coming along and being distributed, Your Grace.” Varys answered. “The women and children who do not know how to fight are each to receive lessons with the Winterfell master-at-arms. Lady Brienne and Lady Arya will take a few of the noble girls under their wings as well.”

Daenerys nodded. “Very well. I trust your smith is living up to his reputation?”

“The Baratheon boy? He’s not _my_ smith, Your Grace.”

“But you did pay his apprentice fee, Lord Varys.”

“I did, but that was so I knew where to find him in case I needed evidence against Cersei. All of that is irrelevant now, and I didn’t bring him here – Ser Davos did.”

“Yes, and Jon Snow trusts Ser Davos, it’s plain to see…” Jon trusted many people, many more than Daenerys, but the Onion Knight didn’t seem like a conniving sort. _I don’t have to worry about House Baratheon coming after me, I suppose._ She had so many enemies she could barely keep them all straight anymore, and she could count those she really, truly trusted on one hand. It was so hard for her to get close to people when she was always wondering who would be the next to stick a knife in her back. _But this is the burden I bear. No one ever said queenship was easy._

Suddenly, there was a shrill scream that made Daenerys immediately rise to her feet. She felt a chill, and it wasn't from the weather. “Someone’s hurt.”

“Your Grace – ” Tyrion started to say, but before he could finish she had already burst from the room and into the corridor.

The girl was curled up at the top of the stairs, body twitching, her hands clutching her stomach as if in pain. Daenerys knelt down immediately and took the handmaid’s head in her lap, stroking her hair as she convulsed. “It’s all right, you’ll be all right…” Even as she said the words, she knew they were not true.

The girl gave one last shuddering breath. “Wi…wine…” She gasped, her voice barely audible. And then just like that her brown eyes fixated on something far away – perhaps not even of this world – and her body stilled. That was when Daenerys knew she was gone. A tear slipped from her eye and she stroked the handmaid's hair once last time.  _Oh, the poor child..._

With a sinking feeling in her gut, Daenerys looked up and spotted the wine glass that had been brought to her minutes earlier rolling down the stairs…

Empty.

* * *

**Theon** :

He closed one eye and took a deep breath, drawing the string of the bow and then releasing. The arrow whizzed through the air and stuck the raven in the belly, sending it falling to the ground.

Theon smirked to himself and placed the bow back in the quiver. One of the Harlaws picked up the bird and retrieved the note from its foot, reading it silently. “Euron has returned from Essos with the Golden Company.” He said. “Now he is sailing from King’s Landing to Pyke to escort his freshly built ships – _alone_.”

“Alone?” Theon repeated, dumbfounded. “Is he arrogant or just stupid?”

“Both, probably.” mumbled Droopeye Dale, causing the others to laugh.

Theon did not laugh, though, taking the note from Harlaw and reading it over himself, just to confirm. It was his uncle’s own hand all right, a letter to one of his crew, not even written in code. _He doesn’t know I’m coming for him._ He thought. _He remembers me as I was that night on_ The Silence _, when I ran away scared. But I won’t be scared anymore. Not this time._

He looked up. “We’ll sail tonight.”

The Ironborn stopped laughing and looked at him, suddenly sobered. “Tonight?” Rook echoed dumbly. “But, we’ll have no time to prepare…”

“ _Tonight_.” Theon repeated, sterner this time. “My sister is your queen. She fought for the Iron Islands when no one else would. She protected us when no one else would. Euron doesn’t care about us! All he cares about is himself, and trying to fuck Cersei Lannister.” A few of the men chuckled. “We call ourselves Ironborn, but if we’re not willing to put ourselves on the line to save our chosen queen, then what are we worth? We’d be no better than those southron pansies. In the Iron Islands, we don’t cower in the corners like babies. We stand up and fight.” _Yara stuck her neck out for me when I was too afraid to ask for help._ He added silently to himself, feeling regretful. _I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for her. What is that life worth if I’m not willing to risk for her in return?_ “We sail tonight.”

This time, no one objected.

~

The sea looked almost black in the darkness of the night as _The Sea Bitch_ sailed towards Pyke. Theon stood on the longship’s deck and stared out at the rapidly approaching coastline. In the harbor bobbed Euron’s newly assembled fleet of ships, with _The Silence_ resting in the middle of them all. _Something’s not right._ Theon could feel it in his bones. “Where are they?” He asked Tristifer Botley. “Why have they left all the ships unattended?”

Tris pointed towards Pyke. “There are bonfires on the island. They must be having a party.”

“Arrogant bastards,” spat another member of Yara’s crew. “They probably don’t even know we’re here.”  

Theon still felt uneasy, but he pushed his reservations down. _I’m just being cowardly, trying to convince myself to back out…right?_ “Fetch the rowboats.”

The smaller boats carried them to _The Silence_ and they pulled themselves up with ropes and hooks. On deck it was eerily quiet, not a crew member to be seen. A chill ran down Theon’s spine. “Yara?” He called out tentatively.

He could hear from below deck the sounds of something banging against the walls and he practically sprinted to find the source of the noise, the Ironmen following behind. “Yara?” More banging was his answer and when he burst into one of the lower cabins, the sight before him stopped him in his tracks.

Yara was bound and gagged, the noise coming from her repeatedly throwing her shoulder against the wall to alert him. Her hair was a matted mess and dried blood was on her face and neck. “ _Yara_.” He repeated again, softer this time, before crossing the room in three strides to fall on his knees before her. “What has he done to you?”

His sister didn’t respond but she shoved her shoulder into the wall again, staring at him with anxious, watery eyes.

Theon unsheathed his sword and began to cut away the ties at her legs and feet. “We’re going to get you out, Yara. I prom – ”

He was cut off by the sounds of footsteps from behind. “Well, well, well.” A familiar voice said. “Little Theon’s come to save the day.”

Euron grinned maniacally and pulled out his battleaxe just as Lorren Longaxe and Six-Toed Harl attempted to push him onto the ground, cutting both their throats in one fluid motion. Theon felt sick when he noticed the new accessory hanging around Euron’s neck.

A severed tongue.

Instinctively he helped Yara to her feet, her hands still bound by rope, while Euron was busy fighting off two more of Yara’s crew who had just come rushing down the stairs. “Come on.” They took the steps up two at a time, Theon holding onto Yara’s arm, but when they reached the deck they both froze.

They were now surrounded by ships, Ironborn jumping onto the deck, swords drawn, their own men having to fight two or three at once just to keep up with the sudden onslaught. Theon cursed to himself. _A trap. It was all a trap. I knew something was wrong, I knew it…Why didn’t I trust myself?_ “What are going to do?” He said, more to himself than anything.

Yara grabbed his hand and used her pointer finger to trace a word on his palm.

_S W O R D_

Immediately realizing what she wanted him to do, Theon unsheathed his sword to cut the last bit of rope binding Yara’s wrists and then he shoved the weapon into her hands. His sister looked at him. “You can do it, you can fight. You’re the strongest person I know. And I…” He reached into the quiver attached to his back and pulled out a bow. “Have a weapon of my own.”

They were being charged at now but before Yara could even react. Theon drew back an arrow and shot it through the throat of one of Euron’s men. His sister sprang to action, slicing at another man as he tried to grab her. It gave Theon a sick sort of satisfaction, watching his opponents fall with each pull of his bow. A memory came back to him of his youth at Winterfell. Robb had been better than him at almost everything – good at swordfighting and politics, better looking, able to get anyone to love him after one conversation…But when they were boys and it came time for them to learn how to shoot a bow and arrow, Robb had struggled. When it was his turn, Theon shot a bullseye on his first try, and it had been one of the greatest moments of his life, knowing there was finally something he excelled at. He pulled back the string on the bow again and an arrow whizzed through the air, landing in the chest of one of Euron’s men. _This,_ Theon thought proudly. _Is what I’m meant to do._

“Little Theon!” He spun around and saw Euron, returning from below deck with blood on his clothes and a devious smile on his face as he twirled his axe. “Give me my captive back, and I’ll give you the mercy of a quick death, else I’ll kill you slower! Your choice, coward!”

Anger coursing through his veins, Theon reached for his bow only to find that his arms were being pulled back by another one of Euron’s men. The quiver was ripped from his back and went flying across the deck, out of his reach.

Euron was laughing. “No cock and now no weapon neither!”

Part of him wanted to lay down and die. But then in his mind he heard Jon Snow’s voice, repeating the words he’d said to him back on Dragonstone: _You’re a Greyjoy, and you’re a Stark._

He had the blood of krakens and he’d grown up among the wolves. _I am a Greyjoy and a Stark._ He told himself silently. _This time, I will be brave. I will win or die trying, just like my family would have._ He’d already betrayed Robb once before and he was not going to betray him again by acting selfish and craven now. He would be as courageous as the man he loved like his brother. And Yara – Yara had once told Ellaria Sand that Theon was to be her advisor and her protector. It was time he started living up to the title.

Theon Greyjoy was done being a coward.

Someone was trying to put him in a chokehold but Theon elbowed him in the crotch, _hard_ , and broke free. He grabbed the longsword off of a corpse and charged at Euron with a great scream.

His sword collided with Euron’s axe and his uncle cackled as they circled each other in the convoluted dance of fighting. “Have your balls grown back, nephew?”

Theon spun to dodge his blow. “You’re going to die tonight, uncle.” He said, before throwing all his weight behind a shot to Euron’s ribs. His uncle barely dodged it, catching the sword between his hands and cutting up his palms in the process.

“I’ll take your tongue,” He snarled. “Just like I took your sister’s.”

Their weapons clashed again and Theon stumbled backward from the weight of Euron’s thrust. He felt his legs give way as he blindly tripped over another scattered corpse. He fell flat on his back with an _oomph_ , and then Euron’s blood splattered face was leering over him. “Not so tough now, huh?” He said, before bringing down the axe.

“No!” He reached out to deflect the blow on instinct and he screamed as the blade cut his hand. He looked and saw blood dripping down his palm, the three middle fingers now only hanging on by a few threads of sinew. The pain was excruciating and Theon had to bite down on his lip so he could not scream again. Blood filled his mouth.

Euron laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you just yet. You’re going to watch me fuck your sister first.” He started to bring the axe down again.  

Theon closed his eyes and braced for death, but the blow never came.

Tentatively he opened his eyes and found Euron crouched on the ground, laughing again as he spit blood on the deck, including a chipped tooth. “You stupid cunt! I should’ve slit your throat!”  

Yara was standing behind him, holding a splintered wooden shield.

Euron was trying to stand back up, still dazed from Yara’s blow and holding the side of his face where she had struck him. Theon pulled himself to his feet with a new sense of vigor. He spotted his bow and arrow across the deck and sprinted towards it, clutching his bloody fingers to his chest. He grabbed the bow and drew an arrow from the quiver, even though his hand was throbbing and he could now barely see straight.

“Hey Euron!” He yelled. “Watch this!”

His uncle turned to face him, a look of shock on his face, just as the arrow flew through the air. Theon’s aim was off due to the injury to his dominant hand and his blurred vision, and Euron reached for his dropped axe, but it wasn’t enough.

The arrow pierced his eye and blood sprayed.

Euron stumbled and Yara yanked the axe from him, slashing it at his kneecaps.

Theon drew another arrow as Euron fell to the deck, writhing and still laughing – always laughing. The next arrow lodged itself between Euron’s lungs and he wheezed, blood and spittle now dripping from the corners of his mouth.

“You can’t…win…” Euron was coughing as Theon came to stand over his bleeding body. “Sellswords…lots of ‘em…the queen will…crush you…”

Theon felt an eerie sort of calmness wash over him as he looked down at Euron. "Yara is the only queen of mine." He said, before he slammed into Euron’s neck with his boot, stomping and twisting.  

“This is for my father you murdered!” He proclaimed, before bringing his foot down again. “This is for my sister!” Now Euron began to gurgle, choking on his own blood. Theon kicked him in the throat one more time and now Euron wasn’t laughing anymore, a haunting smile permanently stuck on his dead face. Around them, everything seemed to go still.

“And _that_ ,” Theon panted, breathless. “Was for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Tyrion, Sansa, Samwell, and Davos.


	5. Beggars in Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion and Daenerys try to find out who wants her dead; Sansa receives a raven bearing dark news; Sam finds out about his family's fate; Davos uncovers a secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title of this chapter comes from Maester Aemon's quote about ravens: "The crow is the raven's poor cousin. They are both beggars in black, hated and misunderstood."

**Tyrion** :

Upon hearing the commotion, Missandei immediately forced Daenerys back into her room, forcing her down onto the bed and checking her all over her body to make sure she was all right, despite the queen’s assurance that she was. Varys swept from the room, saying he was going to consult his little birds in the kitchens about today’s turn of events, while Grey Worm appeared having heard the news, immediately wanting to increase the guard outside Daenerys’s room.

“Black Rabbit and Red Mouse will stand watch with me this evening. Then in the morning, I’ll accompany you to your council meeting with Brown Flea and – ”

“My friend,” Daenerys cut him off gently. “You do not need to watch me all day. You’ll need your sleep as well. I’ll accept the increased guard if it will ease your worries, but I doubt my attempted murderer will try again. They’ve failed in their first attempt, and now they know I will be on the lookout.”

“Are you sure you are all right, my queen?” Missandei asked, one of her hands flying to Dany’s forehead. “You seem a bit flushed. Are you warm? Do you feel ill?”

Daenerys smiled at her and squeezed her hand. “I’m well, dear Missandei, but you are sweet to tend to me. I’d like to stand, if you don’t mind. Take my hand, please.”

Meanwhile, Tyrion sat in silent contemplation, staring at the inside of the now drained cup. “You know what they say about poison,” He said to no one in particular. “It is the weapon of cravens, eunuchs, bastards…and women.”

When he looked at Daenerys, her face had visibly paled and Missandei wrapped an arm around her, as if she were worried Dany might faint. “Cersei.”

“Cersei?” Tyrion repeated. “You think this is her doing?”

“Her brother the Kingslayer just happens to arrive the day before an attempt is made on my life?” Daenerys said. “He says that he’s switched sides, but how can I believe the words of an oathbreaker? This could’ve been their plan: send him here to distract me, so that one of her assassins could poison my wine. You have to admit the timing is suspect.”

“It is, but…” Tyrion trailed off. He knew Jaime. _My brother has done questionable things, but I know when he’s being genuine._ There was not a doubt in Tyrion’s mind that everything he said to Daenerys in the great hall had been the truth. He had no hard proof, but in his heart he knew Jaime had nothing to do with what happened today. “I know my brother, Your Grace. I’m not saying you have to trust him right now, but please don’t do anything rash either. Even if Cersei is responsible for this attack on your life, I don’t think Jaime had anything to do with it. I believed what he told you.”

“Perhaps we should fetch the Kingslayer from his cell.” Grey Worm said, his face stone hard. “See what he has to say for himself.”

Missandei shook her head, looking worried. She said to Daenerys: “I don’t want him anywhere near you, Your Grace. I worry for your safety.”

Daenerys gave Missandei a feeble attempt at a smile. “I do not fear him, my friend. If anything, _he_ should fear _me_.” Then, she looked at Tyrion. “Tell me, my lord Hand, can you prove that your brother is innocent?”

Tyrion swallowed. “I cannot. But Your Grace, I swear that if I genuinely believed he wished you harm, I would not let my personal feelings stop you from punishing him. When I became your Hand, I swore to always tell you what I honestly thought, and that is exactly what I’m doing.”

Daenerys nodded. “Thank you, Lord Tyrion. I believe you – but I’m not ready to write off the Kingslayer just yet.” She turned to Grey Worm. “Could you fetch him from the dungeons for me? I would like to look this man in the eye and question him.”

Grey Worm nodded. “Right away, Your Grace.” He turned to go, but when he opened the door there was somewhere already standing there, just about to knock: Brienne of Tarth.

The woman bowed her head. “Sorry to interrupt, Your Grace, but may I speak with you?”

Grey Worm was looking at Daenerys, silently asking if he should dismiss her and get Jaime, but Daenerys waved him off. She smiled genuinely at Brienne. “Enter, Lady Brienne. I regret that we have not spoken much until now. I’ve heard good things about you – your honor and loyalty are of great renown.”

Brienne smiled. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Tyrion turned his attention away from the wine glass to look at the infamous Brienne of Tarth. He had seen her before but they had never talked extensively. He looked at the sword attached to her hip and immediately recognized the red ripples of the steel, the lion’s head pommel with two glittering rubies for eyes. _My father had that sword made for Jaime._ He thought. _How well does this woman know my brother?_ _She spoke up for him in front of everyone._ Brienne of Tarth’s honesty and bravery was well-known, and he knew Sansa Stark kept the woman as her sworn shield and friend. _Anyone who is brave enough to devote her life to protecting Sansa and say what she said about my brother is a friend of mine._ Yes, Tyrion decided that he liked this woman.

“Lady Brienne,” He said. “What you said yesterday, about my brother – I thought it was a truly touching testimony. The two of you know each other well, I take it?”

Brienne nodded. “Your brother saved my life many times, Lord Tyrion. I’m grateful to him for that. I don’t think he’s the person everyone thinks he is.” She looked at Daenerys warily.

“Lady Brienne,” The Mother of Dragons said. “I’ve heard many great things about you, and you don’t seem to me like a liar. Do you think Jaime Lannister’s intentions here are noble?”

Brienne of Tarth met Daenerys’s eyes directly and did not hesitate to nod affirmatively. _The woman is staunch in her defense,_ Tyrion thought. _No one can deny that._ “I don’t think, Your Grace. I know.”

Daenerys, too, looked as if she respected the woman’s directness. “So you do not think he would be involved in a plot against me?”

Brienne seemed genuinely surprised by the question. “No, Your Grace. Is there some sort of plot?”

“It’s just a question, my lady. Do you have any proof that Jaime Lannister is the honorable man you believe him to be?”

“I only know how I have seen him act, Your Grace, and how he has treated me in our time together. As for proof? No, but…” She hesitated. “Yesterday, I went down to the dungeons to meet with him, Your Grace. We spoke of Cersei, and I truly believe he is done with her. He wants to help, I’m sure of it.”

Her chin quivered with emotion as she spoke. _If I didn’t know better,_ Tyrion thought. _I’d swear she was in love with him._ He looked away and stared into the depths of the wine glass, wondering that if Cersei did not plot against Daenerys, then who had? He dragged his finger inside, collecting the dregs, and then he froze. “Your Grace?”

Daenerys turned away from Brienne to look at him. “What is it, my lord?”

He gulped, staring at the remnants of a pale white substance, speckled with spots red as blood. “I know this poison. It’s a ground up mushroom.”

“A mushroom?” Missandei repeated. “Are you sure it is poisonous?”

“I am certain.” Tyrion insisted. “A pain in your gut, an ache behind your eyes, and then you’re dead…” He had collected them in Pentos, at that manse Varys took him to on their way to find Daenerys. He’d considered using them on himself when he and Jorah had been sold to the slaver, but he hadn’t. The realization was sinking. _Someone tried to kill my queen with mine own mushrooms. But who?_ No one had known he had them, not even Varys…

When he looked at Daenerys, her face was pale. “I will go.” She said decidedly. “I will go speak to the Kingslayer…” She pulled away from Missandei but her handmaid reached for her, trying to pull her back.

“Your Grace – ”

Daenerys stopped in her tracks and suddenly a hand flew to her head, like she had a headache. Tyrion sat up straighter. “Your Grace?” He said. No response. “Daenerys, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” She started to say. “Just a little – ” But then her eyes rolled into the back of her head, and her knees buckled, legs seeming to give way.

Missandei gasped and Grey Worm sprang to action, but it was Brienne who reached the queen first, catching her in her arms just before she could hit the floor…

* * *

**Sansa** :

She woke up late that morning – late for her anyway, since she was usually up before the sun these days – and put on a dress and a fur wrap before heading downstairs to break her fast with Arya. She’d used extra rations to throw a meager feast the night Queen Daenerys arrived, so this morning they only took tea and bread, and her sister wasn’t happy about it.

“Can’t we at least have some bacon? Or an egg?” Arya whined. “I could barely sleep last night, so now I’m tired _and_ starving.”   

“You’re not _starving_ , stop being overdramatic.” Sansa said, finishing her first cup of tea and pouring herself a second. “And if you weren’t at the smithy so late, then maybe you would’ve slept more.” She spread some preserves on her bread, and when she looked up again Arya was staring at her. 

“How did you know about that?”

Sansa shrugged and took a bite. “I could see you walking from my window. I’m glad you’re supervising the production of the weapons, but you shouldn’t be staying there so late.” Arya gave her an annoyed look. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Don’t be like that!”

“Be like what?”

“So…passive aggressive! If you have a problem with my relationship with Gendry, then just say so!”

Sansa nearly choked on her bread. “Excuse me? Who’s Gendry? What relationship?”

“It’s not like that!” Arya said. “Gendry’s my friend. He’s the smith who came here with Jon, but we knew each other before that. When I was with the Night’s Watch, pretending to be a boy, remember I told you that? His master sold him to the Watch and that’s how we met. He was the only one who knew I was a girl. We…” She trailed off. “We looked out for each other.”

“Hmm.” Sansa and Arya had talked about what had happened to them when they reunited, but Arya had been very vague. She hadn’t mentioned befriending a smith while pretending to be a boy. _But truthfully, it sounds exactly like something Arya would do._ She thought. _She’s never been one for decorum._ “So you’re…just friends?”

“Sansa!” Arya cried. “That’s none of your business!”

“I’m just asking! Sisters are supposed to talk to each other about boys they like…” She reached across the table to take Arya’s hand, but her sister pulled away from her before she could.

“I don’t like him like that.” Arya said. Sansa thought the way she was blushing said otherwise, but she bit her tongue. “And even if I did…he doesn’t look at me that way. I’m like a little sister to him.”

Sansa tilted her head to the side and chewed thoughtfully on her crust. She reached out and pushed some of Arya’s hair behind her ear before her sister could swat her hand away. “I know when we were younger I was…mean to you. About your appearance. But you _are_ pretty, Arya, even if you don't think you are. If you would just put a dress on every once in a while…”

“Sansa, I’m not having this conversation with you!”

Sansa was going to object, but then she heard someone clear their throat and turned to see one of the Winterfell stewards standing in the doorway. “Lady Stark, Lady Arya,” He said awkwardly. Arya covered her face with her hands, surely frustrated that the man had heard Sansa lecturing her. “Pardon me, but a raven came for the king. I thought he would be here.”

Sansa stood up and smoothed her skirts. “I’ll bring it to him, thank you Willem.” She took the letter and looked at the seal: the roaring giant of House Umber. _Last Hearth._

After they finished breakfast Arya stalked off to the training yard while Sansa set out to find Jon. She knew it would be improper to open his letter, but she was curious about its contents. She walked up the stairs and as soon as she reached the top she – literally – bumped into Tyrion Lannister. “My lord – I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going…”

“No need to apologize, Lady Stark. I’m a little distracted myself this morning.”

“So you’ve heard?”

Tyrion nodded, his face grave. “I was with her when it happened…”

Sansa’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Her? I was talking about the letter from Last Hearth. What are you talking about?”  

“The queen’s handmaid.” They continued down the hall on her search for Jon as Tyrion explained the story to her: the poisoned wine, the handmaid’s unfortunate fate, Daenerys fainting. “She hasn’t been taking care of herself.” Tyrion explained. “She hasn’t eaten since last night and she’s barely had anything to drink. She’s awake now.”

“Should I go to the kitchens and get some food for her?”

Tyrion smiled at her. “You are kind to offer, my sweet lady, but Missandei is already taking care of that. I think someone has informed your brother – hopefully he can calm Daenerys down, she is adamant that this is Cersei’s doing.”

“Cersei…” Sansa mused. For years she saw firsthand the way that woman’s mind worked. Other than Tyrion and Jaime, she was probably the one here who knew her best. “For once I agree with Queen Daenerys. I wouldn’t put anything past Cersei. I don’t like her, but I have to admit she is smart, and wouldn’t miss an opportunity to strike. I learned a great deal from her about how to outmaneuver an enemy.”

“Luckily you use your powers for good and not for evil.” Tyrion joked, and Sansa laughed quietly despite herself, but then he grew serious. “Jaime has nothing to do with this.”

Admittedly, Sansa did not know Jaime Lannister nearly as well as she knew his siblings, but she knew that he was… _close_ with Cersei, to say the least. If there was some plot, they could be in it together. “Why are you so sure?”

“He’s my brother. He's not perfect but I love him, I will always defend him against accusations I know to be untrue.” Tyrion paused, biting his lip. “Surely you can understand that?”

Sansa had to admit she knew where he was coming from. Robb, and Bran, and Rickon, even Jon, who she had not thought too fondly of as a girl – she knew their characters and even if she did not agree with all of their decisions, she would never let anyone slander their names. _But none of them ever stuck a sword through the back of the king they swore to protect…or harmed an innocent boy because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time…_ “Jaime paralyzed Bran.” She said to Tyrion. “You know that.”

Tyrion nodded. “If you wish to punish him for that, I would understand. But he admitted to it – why would he do that if he were still scheming with Cersei? I looked into his eyes, Sansa. I know he’s changed.”

The way he spoke her name was so familiar, so…so _gentle_ , Sansa had to look away. “I trust you, Tyrion.” _I called him Tyrion. Not ‘Lord Tyrion’, not ‘my lord’, just_ Tyrion _…_ “If you say he didn’t do it, then he didn’t do it.”

He smiled at her, and that was enough to – reluctantly – get a smile out of her too. “Thank you, Lady Stark.”

There were footsteps coming down the hallway and Sansa inadvertently jumped, as if she’d been caught doing something wrong. It was Jon. “Sister, Lord Tyrion,” He said. “How’s the queen?”

“Awake,” Tyrion answered. “She didn’t want us to tell you, but Missandei and Lady Brienne insisted you be informed.”

Jon sighed. “She’s stubborn, that woman. I’m going to check up on her.”

Tyrion glanced at Sansa, and she cleared her throat. “But first – this came for you.”

Jon took the scroll and she saw him blanch at the sight of the Last Hearth seal. “The Umbers - we haven't heard from them in quite some time.” He broke the seal with his thumb and his eyes scanned the page quickly, eyebrows furrowed, before wrapping the scroll back up with a huff. Sansa stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to say something, but Jon was just staring at the closed scroll, looking worried.

“Well?”

“It's not from the Umbers - it's from Tormund and Lord Beric. The Night King reanimated Dany’s lost dragon. The Army of the Dead has breached the Wall, and Tormund and Beric fled to Last Hearth, but…”

Sansa’s heart sank. Last Hearth was the closest castle to the Wall, other than those owned by the Watch, hence the name: it was the last hearth for a traveler before reaching the Gift. Eleven-year-old Ned Umber was their lord now, after his traitorous father died at the Battle of the Bastards. _The boy won’t be able to defend them against an attack._ Sansa thought. _He has barely any men._ “But what?”

Jon gulped. “Last Hearth has fallen. Tormund and Beric are on their way with the survivors to Karhold – they think the Night King will be going there next. To build his army.”

Sansa didn’t know if there could be worse news. _The Night King has a dragon and a bigger army than before. If he gets to Karhold…_ “What are you going to do?” She asked Jon.

Her brother looked her in the eye and smiled humorlessly. “The only thing I can do: I’m going to Karhold to meet him.”

* * *

**Samwell** : 

He shifted his medical bag from one hand to the other nervously before knocking on the Dragon Queen’s chamber door. “Jon?” Sam called out tentatively. “Are you in there?”

The door opened, only it wasn’t Jon who answered, but Ser Jorah. The older man nodded at him politely. “Nice to see you again. I know she’ll be in safe hands with you.”

“Thank you,” Sam said, before shuffling into the room awkwardly. He wasn’t sure why Jon had asked him to come when Winterfell had Maester Wolkan – Sam had only spent a short time at the Citadel, so he certainly wasn’t a medical expert. “How are you?” He asked Ser Jorah.

“Alive,” He responded. “Thanks to you.”

Sam saw now that Daenerys Targaryen was lying down, propped up by pillows and in her dressing gown even though it was now early afternoon, Jon at the edge of her bed. He reached for her hand but she yanked it away, albeit reluctantly. “Do the two of you know each other?” She asked Jorah.

Jorah nodded. “Lord Tarly was training at the Citadel when I went there with greyscale. All of the others thought I was a lost cause, but not him. He treated me even though he was told not to, and he saved my life. It’s because of him that I’m standing here with you now, Your Grace.”

Daenerys turned to look at Sam, visibly shocked, and Sam had to glance away out of embarrassment. He didn’t like receiving attention like this. “I…I did what anyone else would’ve done…”

The Dragon Queen shook her head. “No – most people wouldn’t have done what you did. It was very brave of you. I am in your debt, my lord.”

His face felt hot and Sam knew it was certainly turning red. They were all staring at him now – the queen, Jorah, and Jon, looking proud. “You don’t owe me anything.” He told Daenerys, and she laughed.

“You are too humble. Jon told me you’ve always underestimated yourself, I see he wasn’t exaggerating.”

Jon beamed. “Sam is the smartest person I know, truly.” He told Daenerys. “I know you don’t want to see a maester, but let him look at you. For me, please?”

The Dragon Queen rolled her eyes, but relented. “I just needed water, I will be fine now. Let me go with you to Karhold.”

“I don’t think that would be wise, my queen.” Jorah interjected. “You’re in a weakened state, and we don’t know what we will find when we reach Karhold. At least if we fall, you’ll be here to continue the fight.”

 _If we fall._ Sam’s stomach churned at the mere thought of something happening to Jon. _He won’t die._ He told himself. _Jon is a survivor – he puts himself in danger, I worry about him, and he survives. That’s how it’s always been._ Still, he thought he might like to go into the godswood later to say a prayer to the Starks’ gods, asking them to ensure Jon’s safety.

Once the queen agreed to let Sam look at her, Jon and Ser Jorah started to leave the room, but Sam impulsively stopped Ser Jorah by grabbing his arm. “I know Longclaw is your ancestral sword,” He said. “But since Jon has it, I thought you might need some Valyrian steel. I have House Tarly’s sword, Heartsbane. It’s in my room, and I would like it if you would carry it into battle today. It’s wasted on me.”

Jorah Mormont smiled at him. “It would be my honor.”  

He and Jon left then and once they were gone, Sam awkwardly fumbled with his medical bag. “So,” He said to Daenerys. “Do you still feel light-headed or…?”

“Sam.” The Dragon Queen cut him off firmly, pushing herself into a sitting position, knees to her chest. “May I call you Sam?”

“Umm…yes? Should I call you…?”

“Daenerys,” She supplied, and Sam nearly stopped breathing when she reached out and grabbed his hand. “Jon speaks very highly of you. He loves you, you know. And from what I’ve heard of your loyalty and honesty, I already like you, Samwell Tarly.”

He blushed. “Thank you, Your Grace. Err… _Daenerys_.” Truthfully he hadn’t had much time to talk to Jon about her, but he had heard stories. People who said the Dragon Queen was cruel, or violent, or frighteningly beautiful. _Looking at her now, she doesn’t seem so scary._ Sam thought. _She seems just like a woman. Jon seems to care for her very much…_ And it looked to Sam like Daenerys Targaryen cared for Jon as well, even if she had been wary of showing affection in his presence. _I saw her run after him the night Bran told him about his parentage. She looked like she loved him._ “I think I like you too.”

Daenerys Targaryen smiled at him, but it faltered quickly. “I feel I owe you an apology, for what happened at the Battle of the Goldroad.”

“The Battle of the Goldroad?” Sam repeated. “What does that have to do with me?”

The Dragon Queen frowned. “No one has informed you?”

“Informed me of what?” Now Sam felt nervous again. _What could she possibly have to tell me about?_

She was silent for a long moment, fingering the hem of her dressing gown, lips pressed together. “There is no easy way to tell you this.” Daenerys finally said. “But…at the Battle of the Goldroad, your father and your brother were fighting with the Lannisters. When I won the battle I gave them the option to surrender, but they refused. Lord Tyrion offered to send them to the Watch and still they refused. So I…”

Sam stared down at the ground, feeling like he was about to throw up. “I need you to say it.” He muttered. “Otherwise it won’t feel real.”

He heard her sigh. “I executed them. They’re gone Sam, I’m very sorry.”

“You’re _sorry_?” As soon as he said it, Sam wanted to take it back, but he knew he could not. _No,_ He told himself silently. _I’m done being a coward. I’ll say my piece and if she wants to execute me too, then fine. I won’t lie and say I’m all right when I’m not._ “I held no love for my father, Your Grace – not after how he treated me. But my brother…” Tears pricked his eyes but he willed them away. _I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry. I must be strong._ “I loved my brother, Your Grace. He was foolish and stupid sometimes, but he was also good, and kind, and loyal to a fault. I loved him, and now I must mourn for him.”

To his surprise, the Dragon Queen did not rage or scream, did not get angry at him for what he’d said – she only nodded. “You do not have to believe me when I say this, but truly I am sorry for causing you any pain. War is a terrible, _terrible_ thing. If you are upset with me, I cannot fault you for that, but I hope in time I may earn your forgiveness, Samwell Tarly. I know how much you mean to Jon, and I would never want to cause estrangement between you two.”  

Sam hesitated, then nodded. “I understand things like this happen in war, Your Grace. I hope you can also understand that while I do not fault you, I must also mourn for my lost brother. I know he made his choice, but it hurts nonetheless.”

“And as for your father,” Daenerys added tentatively. “I would understand if you miss him as well, in a way. I had a brother who was cruel to me at times, but yet when he was gone I still found myself missing him sometimes.”

“Do you have any other family, Your Grace?”

“No,” She responded sadly. “Only Jon. You still have a mother and sister, correct?”

“Yes. I would like to see them again, but…” He shrugged. “I have Gilly and Little Sam here, and I have to help Jon. I can't leave him.”

Daenerys Targaryen tilted her head to the side and stared at him for a moment. Sam felt scrutinized under her thoughtful gaze. “Perhaps you could return to your family.” She said finally. “After this war is over. As Lord of Horn Hill.”

 _Lord of Horn Hill._ Sam didn’t even realize at first that he was laughing, as hard as if Daenerys Targaryen had just told him some hilarious joke. “Are you serious?”

“Of course I’m serious! You are the rightful heir.”

“But…” Sam stammered. “I pledged myself to the Watch! I can have no lands, hold no titles!”

“Jon told me the story. Your father forced you to take the vows, isn’t that right? How can I hold you responsible to vows you took under the threat of death? That wouldn’t be fair, would it?”

“No, I suppose not but…” Sam felt so confused. _How could I be Lord of Horn Hill?_ He thought. _Father never wanted me to have it, he never prepared me for it…_

And yet, a little voice in the back of his mind was telling him to do it. _You could see Mother again._ It whispered to him. _You could see Talla, and let her pick whatever husband she chooses. You could even marry Gilly. You could raise Little Sam at your home and let him grow up to be whatever he wants to be. Maybe you could even have more children…_

It was more than Sam had ever dared to dream of, but now he could see it in his mind: Strolling through the gardens of Horn Hill with Gilly on his arm, lots of children running around them, Little Sam playing with his brothers and sisters. At night reading to his mother as she worked on her sewing, Gilly and Talla sitting and talking like old friends. Maybe Jon could even visit them sometimes, when he was king – he could bring his children and then they would become best friends with Sam’s, just like Jon was Sam’s best friend. _Maybe the Dragon Queen and I could even become friends._ Sam thought.

But then he remembered that they still had a war ahead of them, and the Night King was coming, and there was a chance these dreams might never become reality…

“I’ll think about it.” He told the queen. “Now, can we talk about why you fainted, Your Grace?”

“I told you, call me Daenerys.” She corrected gently. “And yes, if we must.”

“I know you said you feel better now, but have you had any other ailments recently?”

Daenerys shook her head. “No, but – ” She paused, thinking.

Sam waited for her to continue, but after a long moment she still hadn’t said anything. “But?”

“This is embarrassing…” She glanced at Sam furtively. “I did throw up yesterday. After the audience with the Kingslayer. Just looking at him made me feel ill…”

Immediately, Sam felt concerned. He looked at the queen and, blushing, wondered how he was going to ask such a personal question. “Forgive me, but…have your…breasts…felt swollen?”

Daenerys looked at him as if he had three heads. “Why are you asking me such a question?”

“I couldn’t help but notice that the top of your dresses appear tighter.”

The queen crossed her arms over her chest. “I suppose, but I’m about to get my moon – ” Suddenly she cut herself off and her eyes widened. Sam could tell that they were both thinking the same thing. “ _No_. It’s not possible…I…I can’t have children.”

“Was your womb removed, Your Grace?”

“No, but – ”

“Do you still get your moonblood?”

“Yes, but – ”

“When did you last get it?”

“Before we set sail for White Harbor. Gods, that was…” She did the math in her head. “Almost two moons ago.”

“And have you recently been…” Sam paused. “ _Intimate_?”

“Before Winterfell, but…” Daenerys looked shocked, but Sam noticed that her hand had subconsciously come to rest over her lower belly. _Deep down she knows it, even if she won’t believe it._ “Sam, tell me it’s not possible.”

Sam shook his head. “It’s more than possible. Daenerys…you’re with child.”

* * *

**Davos** :

Davos grunted as he and Gendry finally placed down the crate of dragonglass weapons – they’d only carried it from the forge to the yard, but the weight was incredible and enough to make Davos lose his breath. “Everyone needs to take one,” Gendry instructed their forces, passing an _arakh_ off to one of the Dothrakis, who looked impressed.

“White man makes good _arakh_.” He said in broken Common Tongue.

As the weapons were passed out, Jon walked out of the castle with Lady Sansa and Lady Arya flanking his sides. “I’m coming with you to Karhold.” The latter said stubbornly.

Jon scoffed. “You’re my baby sister. You think I’m letting you go? We don’t know what we’re walking into. I won’t be able to look out for you.” 

Still, Arya persisted. “I don’t need your permission and I don’t need you to look out for me! I can protect myself. I’ve been doing it for years and I’m still here.”

Warily, Jon looked at Sansa, who only shrugged. “She’s very capable.” She said. “And I don’t think you could stop her anyhow. She doesn’t like the word ‘no’ very much.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Jon sighed and gave in. “Fine, but promise me you’ll be careful.” Arya smirked, seeming pleased with herself.

“Now,” Sansa sighed, her eyes scanning their assembled forces. “Where is the Dragon Queen? Isn’t she coming with you?”

“I didn’t think that was a good idea. She fainted this morning, she’s dehydrated. I don’t want something to happen to her.”

“Then what about the dragons? You can’t seriously be going without them, not when the Night King has one.”

Davos heard Jon curse under his breath. He clearly hadn’t thought of that.

“He will be taking the dragons.” Someone called out.

They all turned their heads as Daenerys Targaryen strode through the courtyard. She had thrown a fur over her dressing gown and Davos could see slippers peeking out from under her hem. Her face looked a little paler but if she felt weak, she wasn’t letting it show.

“I’m still staying behind,” Daenerys told Jon, seeing his worried look. “Sam says a little rest, and I’ll be good as new.”

Jon smiled at her. “So you’ve decided to finally listen to me?”

“I’m listening to Sam,” The Dragon Queen laughed. “Not you.”

Davos cleared his throat. “Your Graces,” He said. “How exactly is Jon to take the dragons without you?”

The others looked at Daenerys, wondering the same thing, and she grabbed Jon by the shoulders, looking him in the eye. “I know you may not believe it, but you have all the power you need already inside you. You are the blood of wolves and dragons. Drogon knows how special you are to me, and he will follow you if it is my will. As for Rhaegal…” She paused. “Rhaegal has no rider.”

Jon looked uncertain. “Are you suggesting that I…?”

Daenerys nodded. “I know that Ned Stark was your father in every way that mattered, but Rhaegar was your father too. It only makes sense for you to ride the dragon I named for him.”

Still, Jon seemed hesitant. Lady Sansa looked surprised and unsure, while Lady Arya seemed almost excited at the prospect of her brother riding a dragon. Jon glanced at Davos, looking for guidance.

“I already believed that you could make magical things happen, Your Grace.” Davos thought of that night at Castle Black, the night Jon Snow rose from death and was reborn. It was the most stunning moment of his life, and one he would remember until his last breath. “I believe in you. Until the day I die, I will believe in you.”

Jon looked around at the Northern lords: Mormont, Glover, Cerwyn, and all the rest. “I’ll have to tell them all.” He said. Davos knew he meant about his parentage. No one outside of Daenerys's council, the Starks and Davos himself knew the secret. 

Surprisingly, it was Sansa who spoke up. “If they truly love the North, they’ll understand. Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen when they named you King in the North, even if they did not know it then. Nothing has changed. You were our king then, and you’re our king now.”

Jon smiled slightly, and looked at Daenerys. “How do I call them?”

“Just close your eyes.” She instructed. “And feel it in your heart. And they will come.”

Jon took a deep breath. “They will come.” He repeated quietly.

Davos watched as Jon turned and faced the sky, closing his eyes and holding his breath, like a man silently praying. They all stared at the grey sky, waiting for a flash of wing or a glimpse of tail, and moments passed in pregnant silence. Davos was starting to think that maybe it wouldn’t happen at all when, suddenly –

Drogon and Rhaegal cried out with a thunderous roar and swooped down into the courtyard of Winterfell, seemingly out of nowhere. The crowds parted, some of the lords letting out cries of distress, and the dragons landed with enough force to make the ground tremble. They landed in front of Jon and Daenerys and then, to everyone – including Davos’s – astonishment, they lowered their heads in submission...towards Jon. 

The king was unable to contain his smile now and he looked at Daenerys, who was teeming with pride. “Go on.” She whispered encouragingly.

A hush fell through the crowd as Jon approached Rhaegal, running a hand across the scales on his neck. He muttered something to the creature, something Davos could not hear, and then he climbed onto his back. All around people began to whisper and Rhaegal reared his head, roaring. Davos could feel pride surging through him, watching as Jon stood up on Rhaegal’s back and turned to address his people.  

“A few days ago,” He began. “I became privy to a secret that very few have known about, for twenty-three years. A secret my father, the late Eddard Stark, your lord, hoped to take to his grave. While Lord Eddard was my father in my heart, the truth is…that by blood, he was not my father, but my uncle. I am the son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, who was his wife.”

The uproar commenced immediately. The Northern lords began to whisper to each other, some of them crying out in protest. “How long have you known?” Someone shouted. “How can we have a Targaryen for a king?” cried another.

“They should’ve named you Queen in the North!” said yet another. It was Yohn Royce, staring at Sansa through the crowd.

Lady Sansa, to her credit, retained her composure and addressed the anxious lords with authority in her voice. “As the rightful Lady of Winterfell, I say you should listen to your king.” That shut them up.

Jon cleared his throat, then continued. “The North is my home. It always will be my home. I would lay down my life for it, without hesitation. That is why, back at Dragonstone, I bent the knee to Queen Daenerys Targaryen.”

More commotion. Rhaegal silenced everyone almost immediately when he let out another great roar, Drogon soon picking up the cry. The Northern lords closed their mouths, some of them taking further steps back away from the dragons.

“I thought Queen Daenerys was our only chance of defeating the Night King.” Jon explained. “But now, things have changed. The queen and I have gotten to know one another, and we know we are stronger together than we are apart. Together, we will end this Long Night, and then take the Seven Kingdoms together – for the people, for the North, as your king and queen.”

Gendry’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Are you two getting married?” He whispered to Daenerys, but Arya swiftly elbowed him in the ribs, telling him to shut up.  

“I understand if you are wary.” Jon continued. “I’m still the same man I was before, but I know there were many misconceptions about my blood father, especially in these parts. If that changes your opinion of me, and if you want to leave, I will not stop you. No harm will come to you, on my honor as a Stark, on my honor as a Targaryen. But if you stay and fight – not _for_ me, but _with_ me – I swear to you that your loyalty will be repaid tenfold. Never again shall the Iron Throne belong to kings and queens who care more for themselves than they do their people. Together, we will usher in a new era for Westeros. An era of hope, an era of prosperity, an era of peace. Starting today.”

For several moments, there was silence, everyone looking around hesitantly. Davos took a deep breath. _Fuck it._ He thought to himself. He drew his sword and raised it, saluting Jon. “To King Jon and Queen Daenerys!” He proclaimed. “The first of their names!”

Jorah Mormont was the second to take up the cry, removing Heartsbane from its sheath and falling to his knees. “To King Jon and Queen Daenerys!”

Then, little Lady Lyanna smiled wickedly, following her cousin’s lead. Davos knew he had always liked that fearless little girl. “King Jon and Queen Daenerys!”

In a matter of moments the other Northern lords took up the cry, drawing their swords and falling to their knees, one by one. “King Jon and Queen Daenerys! Long may they reign!” Davos didn’t know if he’d ever felt as proud of anyone as he felt of Jon in that instant.

Not a single one of the Northerners chose to leave.

~

The Northerners were unsure at first about riding a dragon.

Little Lady Lyanna, fearless as ever of course, was happy to volunteer to go first and Jon helped her on Rhaegal’s back. Jorah went with her, since he’d ridden a dragon before beyond the Wall when Daenerys rescued him, and Jon instructed the dragon to take them to Karhold and then return. When the creature obediently did just that, the other lords seemed to calm, and they took turns riding on Drogon and Rhaegal’s backs to Karhold, dragonglass weapons in hand.

Jon instructed Ghost to stay with Daenerys and protect her while he was gone. The wolf didn’t seem to want to part from her anyway, remaining loyally by the queen’s side, rubbing his face against her torso. “Such a good boy, Ghost.” Daenerys murmured, scratching him behind the ears. “You want to protect us, don’t you?”

From the queen’s side, Davos watched as Ghost burrowed deeper into the fabric over her belly. “He seems to like you very much, Your Grace.”

Daenerys smiled. “He loves to follow me around. I didn’t understand it at first, but I think he must know – ” She cut herself off abruptly and looked away, not meeting Davos’s eyes.

The Onion Knight inched closer to her, lowering his voice. “How far along are you?”

“I don’t know what you’re – ”

“Your Grace, my wife bore me seven sons. I know what it looks like when a woman is with child.” As Jon loaded up the Northern lords onto the dragons, Davos had noticed how Daenerys Targaryen always seemed to have one hand folded over her belly at all times. Couple that with Ghost’s sudden protectiveness of her, the newfound tightness in the tops of her gowns, and the pallor of her complexion that indicated she had been getting sick recently, and it had been easy for Davos to put it all together. “So, how far along are you?”

The Dragon Queen glanced in both directions, to make sure no one else was listening to their conversation. “About two moonturns.”

“Congratulations.” Davos said truthfully. The timing wasn’t great, to say the least, but he firmly believed that children were blessings, even if they were unexpected. He looked over to where Jon was standing, the king saying something to Arya that was making her roll her eyes – probably another warning about watching herself. _If he’s so protective over his sisters, imagine what he would be like with a daughter._ Davos thought. “Does he know?” He asked Daenerys.

She shook her head. “I only just found out myself. I don’t want him to be distracted going into this battle.”

Davos nodded. “I understand. Well, he won’t hear anything from me.”

“Thank you, Ser Davos. You are most kind. I hope you know how thankful I am for everything you’ve done for Jon.”

“It was my pleasure, my queen.”

Finally, there were only a few of them left: Jon, Davos himself, Arya and Gendry, as well as the queen and Lady Sansa, who would be staying behind. “Where is Lady Brienne?” The latter asked curiously. “I haven’t seen her in quite a while.”

“Here, my lady.”

They turned their heads to see Lady Brienne exiting Winterfell accompanied by Lord Tyrion and two unexpected others: Jaime Lannister and the other man he had arrived at Winterfell with, both of them still shackled.

“Did I ever give my leave for these two to be released?” Daenerys Targaryen asked coolly.

“We have names, you know.” The other man said, extending one of his chained hands as if to shake. “Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, pleasure.” The queen only gave him a cursory glance in response.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion piped up. “Since your unfortunate illness requires you to stay behind, His Grace is a man down. My brother and Ser Bronn are both capable fighters. Let them accompany His Grace to Karhold and prove their loyalty in this fight.”

“And if you’re lucky,” Jaime Lannister added with a shrug. “Maybe I’ll die in battle and you’ll finally be rid of me.” Lady Brienne shot him a look, as if she didn’t think his jest was very funny.

To Davos’s surprise, Daenerys Targaryen looked at him. “You are King Jon’s most trusted councillor. Do you think I should accept this offer?”

Everyone was looking at him now. Davos didn’t know if he would ever get used to highborns asking _him_ what he thought. In some ways, he still felt like a smuggler from Flea Bottom, not a king and queen’s advisor. “Your Grace, I think every man deserves a chance to prove himself. Let them accompany King Jon into battle and their lives shall be placed in the gods’ hands. They will decide their fate.”

Daenerys Targaryen smirked and said nothing for a moment, before looking to her Hand. “Remove their chains.”

Jaime Lannister and Ser Bronn were unshackled, and Jon helped the others board the dragons’ backs. “Are you ready, Ser Davos?” Jon called to him. It was only then that he realized he was the last to board.

He’d never sat on top of a dragon before. He found himself holding his breath as he straddled the creature, so great and majestic below him. Gendry turned around to look at him. “Growing up in Flea Bottom, did you ever think we’d end up here?”

Davos snorted. “Fuck no.”

They were ready to go now, but before Jon could climb onto Rhaegal, Daenerys Targaryen called out. “Jon, wait!” She surprised Davos – and Jon as well, it seemed – by running over to Jon and pulling his face down so she could kiss him on the lips. “Be safe today. Come back to us, Jon Snow.”

Jon still seemed stunned from the kiss, but he nodded. “If my queen commands it.”

Daenerys Targaryen backed away to rejoin Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion, and Davos saw her hands discreetly touch her belly. Jon swung one leg over Rhaegal’s back and grabbed him by the back of the neck. “Drogon, Rhaegal,  _sōvēs_.”  

And then they were off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm almost positive that Jon will ride Rhaegal on the show - the process of becoming his dragonrider would probably be much more complicated than this, but this story is only 13 chapters. Some things have to be hastened. 
> 
> Up next: the battle at Karhold and Arya, Jaime, Melisandre and Jon's POVs.


	6. Karhold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya uses her new skills in battle; Jaime attempts to prove himself; Melisandre conceals her identity; Jon makes a decision about his future with Daenerys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it's been almost three weeks since my last update. Good news is I have Chapter 7 completely written and it just needs to be edited, so that will be up within the next two weeks. 
> 
> If you're enjoying this story, please consider leaving a comment or even a kudos. Your feedback really inspires me to keep writing and even if you only comment a few words, it means a lot.

**Arya** :

It began to blizzard on their way to Karhold.

Snow was blowing into Arya’s eyes and she had to bury her face into the fabric of her cloak, unable to see anything. Through the wind a hand reached out to gently touch her shoulder.  

“Stick by me,” Gendry whispered to her, and Arya was about to snap at him that she wasn’t a child in need of his protection, when he continued. “You watch my back and I’ll watch yours. That’s the way it’s always been, right?”

Her insides warmed at that. _You’ll be needing me more than I need you._ She wanted to tease, but Arya could only nod stiffly, hoping he was able to see it, because snow was flying into her face and she couldn’t speak.

When they landed on the ground at Karhold, the blizzard was continuing and Arya stumbled off of Rhaegal’s back blindly – she couldn’t see five feet in front of her. She hadn’t thought the winter would be that difficult for her, since she was of the North and had seen snow many times before, but it had never been like this.

Jon led them through the storm and Arya could just make out a splash of red hair, coming to meet them. “Jon Snow!” bellowed a red-bearded man who had to be at least six feet tall. That had to be the Giantsbane.

“Tormund,” Jon replied. “You have no idea how relieved I am to see you.” Jon went to shake his hand but Tormund Giantsbane pulled him in for a bone-crushing hug, which literally swept Jon off his feet.

Arya couldn’t hold back her laugh at the sight, but then the silhouette of another man became visible through the snow. “Nice to see you again, girl.” She looked up just as Beric Dondarrion appeared before her, smiling as if they were old friends, as if he hadn’t kidnapped her and sold Gendry for a profit.

Instinctively, Arya grabbed Gendry by the arm and pulled him closer to her. “Can’t say the same to you.” She told Beric.

He laughed. “Still holding a grudge, I see?” His eyes flitted to her hand on Gendry’s arm. “The boy’s forgiven me, and he’s the one I sold.”

“I never said I forgive you.” Gendry snapped. “And I definitely don’t trust you. But we’re on the same side now, so we won’t kill you either.” He looked at Arya. “Right?”

“But – ” Arya started to say. Beric was on her list and she couldn’t deny that it would feel satisfying to glide her sword across his throat. _He took Gendry from me. He deserves to die for that._ But Gendry had told her about how Lord Beric had pledged to serve Jon, how Thoros of Myr had lost his life beyond the Wall, and she knew that her brother couldn’t afford for her to start killing his allies. She still wanted to kill Beric, but for now she would refrain. “Fine.” She couldn’t promise what she would do _after_ the war though…

Now Jon was back on his feet, and he turned to introduce Tormund and Lord Beric to everyone who had just arrived with him. “You remember Ser Davos, Gendry, and Lady Brienne, I’m sure.” Tormund grinned at Brienne and Arya spotted her duck behind Davos and Gendry, which made Arya want to laugh. “Let me also introduce my sister, Arya Stark.”

Arya forced a nod. “Pleasure.” She said through gritted teeth, staring murderously at Lord Beric.

Jon hesitated when he came to the last two. “And these are Ser Bronn of the Blackwater and Ser Jaime Lannister.”

“Lannister, eh?” Beric chuckled. “Never thought I’d see the day a Lannister fights for a Snow.”

“Probably never thought you’d see this day at all,” Jaime Lannister shot back. “Considering you’ve died what…five times now?”

“Six,” Beric corrected. “And this is my last life, I’m afraid. Better make it count.”

Tormund Giantsbane’s eyes scanned the group and he looked at the hammer strapped to Gendry’s back. “Made yourself a new one?”

“Had to,” Gendry grumbled. “Because _someone_ left my old one beyond the Wall.”

“The Dog was right, you are a whinger.” Tormund laughed, and then he smiled cheekily at Arya. “Seems you’ve got yourself a lady love too.”

It was only then that Arya realized she was still holding onto Gendry’s arm, and she dropped it quickly. If anyone called her out for blushing, she would deny it and say it was frostbite. “I’m no one’s lady love.”

“Well that’s too bad.” Tormund said. He elbowed Gendry in the ribs in a way that looked like it was supposed to be playful, but it made Gendry wince. “Warrior women make the best lovers. You want a girl who will keep you on your toes. Speaking of, where did the big lady go?” He wandered off without another word, searching for Brienne. Arya had a feeling Lady Brienne was going to be outrunning him today as much as the White Walkers.  

They started to walk through the snow, which was now deep enough that it came up to Arya’s mid-calf. She could barely walk and she knew this would give her a disadvantage in the fight. How could she be fast if she couldn’t move?

Through the blizzard she could make out the form of Karhold in the distance. It was an old castle, small and mean-looking, with two towers perched on adjacent rocks rising out of the snowy forest below. “Your Grace!” Someone yelled, and Jorah Mormont was running towards them through the snow. “Karstark men have spotted the Army of the Dead in the distance!”

Immediately, Arya could see Jon’s face drain of color. “Do they know where the Night King is?”

“Haven’t seen him, but I suspect he’s not far off.”

Jon cursed. “I have to get on Rhaegal and see if I can find him. Davos, Gendry, go back with Ser Jorah and Lord Beric. You’ll guard the North Tower, it’s the first place the Army of the Dead will hit. Lady Brienne, Ser Jaime, Ser Bronn, you can go to the South Tower with Tormund to fend off possible attacks from the rear. Arya, I want you to go inside the castle and help evacuate – ”

Arya frowned. “Why do I have to go inside the castle? I can go on the front lines with Davos and Gendry.”

“That’s dangerous. I won’t be there to look out for you – ”

“Your Grace,” Gendry cut in. “She’ll be safe with me. I’d defend Arya with my life, I promise.” He smiled tentatively at her. “Not that she needs much of my protection…”

Jon hesitated, looking from one of them to the other. Arya raised an eyebrow at him. “You promised to let me fight. Treat me like I’m any other one of your soldiers, not like your sister.”

Jon sighed. “All right. Arya, go to the North Tower.”

Ser Jorah led them through the forest and then towards the rocky slope which led up to the great stone tower. As they walked Arya made sure to keep herself between Gendry and Beric at all times, as if Beric might somehow try something again. “They’ve been trying to evacuate the Karstark household out of the South Tower.” Jorah explained as they stepped out of the brush and towards the castle. “We have lookouts watching the Army of the Dead’s approach. No dragons in sight, except for Drogon and Rhaegal…”

Arya looked up and cupped a gloved hand around her eyes. Lyanna Mormont was perched up on the rocks, staring out into the distance, and she was waving her hands in their direction frantically. Arya bumped Gendry with her elbow. “Can you make out what she’s saying?”

The others all looked, having to squint against the oncoming snow, poor visibility making it nearly impossible to see the words on Lyanna Mormont’s lips. They walked closer. “ – you!” Arya heard her scream. “ – behind – ”

Arya spun around.

And then she screamed.

The man behind them didn’t look like a man at all, just a skeleton held together by some invisible force, waving a spear made of ice. Ser Jorah reacted first, unsheathing Heartsbane and racing towards the wight. They came to blows, Valyrian steel sword crashing against ice spear, before Jorah was able to knock the spear out of the wight’s hand and stick him between his ribs. The creature disintegrated and floated off into the breeze, looking like it had never been there at all…

“Defend the castle!” Mormont screamed at them. “Now!”

They all took off running, slowed down by the snow up to their calves (or in Arya’s case, now almost to her knees), and there were several times where she nearly fell on her face. She looked over her shoulder to see a fresh wave of wights charging at them, ice weapons of all kinds drawn, seeming uninhibited by the heavy snowfall. “Behind me!” Gendry had to yell at her so she could hear him through the wind. “I promised Jon I’d keep you safe!”

Arya jumped back, drawing Needle and her dagger, twirling them between her gloved fingers. Ser Jorah was fighting another wight and Ser Davos charged at another, driving his sword into the creature’s skull. When it faltered, Ser Davos stuck a dragonglass dagger in its neck. Beric Dondarrion pulled out his sword and lit it aflame, before charging at the breach.

She looked to Gendry who pulled out his new warhammer, decorated with a pair of black antlers for the Baratheon stag. Whatever the antlers were made of didn’t look like steel. “Dragonglass.” Gendry explained. Arya had to admit that was one of his better ideas.

A pair of wights came at them and Gendry stepped in front of her, his hammer colliding with one of the ice swords. The second lunged at Arya, aiming for her throat, and she swung her sword at him, then kicked him with her boot. The wight fell backwards into a snowdrift and she drove her dagger into its chest. She looked over at Gendry and saw him swing the hammer at the wight’s throat, knocking its head clean off its shoulder in one swoop, both of their wights floating off into the breeze like snowflakes.

 _He’s strong._ Arya thought to herself, but she had no time to marvel. They looked at each other and – as if wordlessly agreeing – charged towards the army. Ser Davos had two wights on him, one in front and one in back, and Gendry crushed the skull of the wight behind him before it could stab Ser Davos in the back.

“How you doing, girl?” Beric yelled at her as he twirled his sword, taking out three wights all at once as he sliced through their spines.

“Fine!” She yelled back, bracing herself as two more wights came at her. She had lost Gendry at some point but Lyanna Mormont was now running down the mountainside, bow drawn. She pulled a dragonglass arrowhead from her quiver and fired it at the wights, sticking one of them in the empty eye socket.

Arya sliced through one wight’s shoulder and another was on her immediately. Their swords collided and the wight seemed strong, the pressure of its blow nearly sending her doubling over backward, but with her other hand she stuck it with the dagger, right where its bellybutton should’ve been. The wight dispersed but Arya tripped over a root hidden under the snow and lost her footing, falling onto her stomach.

She panted heavily, the wind knocked out of her, and then she heard Lyanna screaming. “Arya! Behind you!”

Her neck was throbbing and it hurt to turn her head. Another member of the Army of the Dead was walking towards her, but this one looked different from all the rest. It had long white hair and eyes like frost, skin the color of snow pulled taut across its bones. When its unnaturally blue eyes met Arya’s grey ones, she swore it looked at her with a degree of recognition. And then it lifted the spear.

She was caught off guard when the White Walker pulled back its arm and threw the spear, sending it hurtling towards her. She rolled over in the snow, frantic, and the spear landed a few inches away from her head. The White Walker reached for a second spear. _Come on._ Arya silently commanded herself. _Get up, get up._ She’d ripped her left sleeve and there was blood oozing from a painful gash at her elbow, but she kicked off the ground and pushed herself up onto her feet, staggering away from the reach of the second flying spear. She lifted up her sword even though it hurt to do so. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ She chanted in her head, thinking of Syrio and Jaqen and the Hound and the Waif, every lesson they’d ever taught her. _Fear cuts deeper than swords, fear cuts deeper than swords…_

She stumbled through the accumulating snow towards the White Walker, sword and dagger raised, and ducked low to the ground as another spear flew in her direction. With a cry of pain she slashed at him, nearly cutting one of the White Walker's ankles clean off, but then the White Walker raised the spear and it clashed against Needle, the force sending Arya down onto her knees…

Before the White Walker could deliver the killing blow, someone hit the Walker forcefully on the back of the head. Arya looked up and saw that Gendry and Ser Davos had come to her rescue, Gendry lifting his hammer to strike again while Ser Davos came at the Walker from the other side, shaking off the wight grabbing at his arm at the same time. The White Walker seemed confused and looked back and forth, not sure which of the three of them it wanted to go for. He swung his ice spear towards Gendry and Ser Davos, who dodged it just in time. Gendry lifted the hammer and it clashed against the ice spear, splitting it in two, while Ser Davos sliced at the back of the Walker’s neck, white skin sloughing off bones.

Arya pushed herself onto her feet, blood continuing to drip down her arm, just as the White Walker changed his strategy. He dropped the rest of his ice spear onto the ground and shoved Ser Davos, the Onion Knight landing flat on his belly. Then he used one cold, white hand to grab Gendry by the throat, lifting him several inches off the ground, as if he weighed nothing. She could see Gendry’s face start to change colors as he sputtered and fought, struggling to breathe.

In that moment Arya forgot how much her arm hurt, forgot how her lung constricted when she breathed, forgot that she could barely move through the snow. She raced forward and drove her dagger between the White Walker’s shoulder blades with a guttural scream.

The White Walker shattered and Gendry fell to the ground, landing on his back. Arya raced forward to take his hand and pull him to his feet. “Are you all right?”

Gendry forced a nod, but she could see a mark on his throat in the shape of fingers. “Fine. Are you?”

Arya nodded and looked around. A wight was trying to drag Ser Davos by the foot and Ser Jorah and Lord Beric were both cornered, but all the wights disintegrated at the same moment. Arya and Gendry helped Ser Davos to his feet and the older man wheezed, brushing snow off his front.

Lyanna Mormont came down the mountainside. “We have to go!”

There would be no argument from any of them. Gendry let Ser Davos lean on his shoulder and in an uncharacteristic display of affection, Lyanna hugged Ser Jorah, who seemed surprised at first but then hugged her back. Lord Beric stuck his sword in the snow to put out the fire.

But as soon as Arya turned around, she froze.

She was staring into the cold, reanimated eyes of little Ned Umber…

* * *

**Jaime** :

It felt good to have Widow’s Wail back. He didn’t know exactly how long it had been since the sword was taken from him – in the cell below Winterfell, hours felt like days and the darkness made it difficult to tell whether it was morning or evening. After Brienne visited on the first day, no one had come but the gaoler to bring food, and Jaime counted his meals to keep track of time. It was Tyrion who’d appeared outside his cell this morning, and for a moment Jaime had thought that this was it, that his brother’s queen was going to kill him now. “Keys.” Tyrion had said, only when he unlocked the cell, Jaime saw Brienne, standing there with Widow’s Wail in her hand.

The wench always kept her promises.

He was going to be a little rusty – he hadn’t had a good practice in weeks. They trudged through the snow up towards Karhold’s South Tower, the Wildling Tormund leading the way. “We’re gonna drive that Night King back into the ground.” He was saying to Brienne, who looked like she didn’t want to be a part of this conversation. “A member of the Free Folk is worth ten of these southron fighters, and twenty of the Night King’s dead men.”

Jaime piped up before he even realized he was doing it. “So then why did you flee Eastwatch and Last Hearth with your tail between your legs?”

The other man’s face faltered. “It was just me and old Dondarrion.” Tormund said. “We needed to tell Jon Snow. And I had something at Winterfell I needed to see again…” He smiled crookedly at Brienne.

Her eyes met Jaime’s, practically pleading, and Jaime moved to stand between the two of them. He clamped Tormund on the back. “Tell me, how do children of the Free Folk learn to fight?” He wasn’t really interested, but he saw Brienne exhale now that Tormund’s attention was off of her for a while. Bronn was smirking and he began to hum a song to himself.

When they reached the South Tower, Clegane and Podrick were waiting for them, having gone on the dragon ahead of them leaving Winterfell. “Can’t this fucking army get here already?” The Hound shouted. “I’m ready for a fight.” _And ready to get away from Payne,_ Jaime suspected. The squire was bouncing from one foot to the other, rambling nervously.

Brienne walked up and clamped her squire on the shoulder. “Pod, can you go inside the tower and bring all the survivors back to Drogon and Rhaegal? We need to evacuate them.”

“But my lady,” Podrick started to protest. “Won’t you need me to – ?”

Brienne cut him off gently. “This is a specific order from His Grace. And it’s very important to follow the king’s orders, isn’t it?”

Podrick nodded. “Yes my lady. Of course my lady.”

The Hound looked relieved once Pod was out of their hair. “They’re going to kill that one first.”

Brienne scowled at him. “Don’t say that. He’s braver than he looks.”

“I’ve seen him fight. ‘Brave’ isn’t the first word I’d use to describe him.”

“I have to agree.” Tormund added. “If he were Free Folk, he would’ve had a sword in hand since he learned how to walk. Builds strength. Instead the boy looks afraid of his own shadow. Weak ones like that…they never last.”

“Our weaknesses can be overcome with hard work and diligence.” Jaime said a little snappily, absentmindedly rubbing his golden hand under the glove.

Tormund noticed the action. “I didn’t mean you.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Jaime silently decided that he didn’t like Tormund Giantsbane very much.

Before any more words could be exchanged, there was a great roar that made the ground tremble. They all turned their eyes to the sky and saw the dragon flying overhead, circling the castle and the surrounding forest. Only this wasn’t one of Daenerys Targaryen’s living dragons – this dragon was blue as frost, wing ripped from the injury that had killed it.

“Oh fuck.” Bronn muttered.

The dead were upon them in an instant. They weren’t particularly fast creatures, but the sheer number of them was astounding as the dead men began to appear from all sides. ‘Oh fuck’ was right. Jaime had thought one of these things was scary, and several dozen were worse. He wielded Widow’s Wail, slashing one of them in the head. To his credit, Tormund Giantsbane had bravely charged into the fray. Bronn was hacking his way through the pack of dead men closing in on him, and The Hound was guarding the tower, striking the dead in their skeletal chests. That left only Brienne beside him, their matching swords in hand as they fought for their lives.

“You better not die.” Brienne said to him, her voice barely audible through the snow and sounds of battle. “Or Lord Tyrion will hate me.”

“Is that the only reason?” Jaime quipped back. A wight charged at him and he kicked it to the ground before stabbing its neck, separating its skull from its shoulders before the wight disintegrated and blew off with the breeze. “You wouldn’t miss me if I died?”

“This is not the time for jokes!”  

“It’s a serious question. I’d miss you if you died.” He slashed at another wight. “Tyrion would miss me, maybe. Cersei would celebrate. Bronn is only still here because I pay him. But you? They’d write songs about your brave and noble demise. Oh, the Starks would cry, I’m sure. Maybe Tormund would even weep for you…”  

There was a lull in the onslaught and Brienne glanced at him, blue eyes looking pensive. “I would. Miss you, I mean.”

The words were enough to pry a reluctant smile out of him, but there was no time to dwell on it as a second group of wights descended. One came at Brienne from behind but Jaime struck it before it could get to her, and she gave him a look of thanks. There was a dragon roar’s again but when Jaime looked up this time, he saw Rhaegal flying across the sky. _Jon Snow,_ he mused. _Becoming a dragonrider._ When he’d first met the boy at Winterfell, he never would have predicted that their paths would cross again, let alone that the boy was secretly the Targaryen heir.

Rhaegal flew at Viserion and red flame met blue. The sight was terrifying and awe-inspiring. Rhaegal beat his great wings and knocked into his dead brother, sending the Night King’s dragon flying downwards before he regained control and went up again, crashing into Rhaegal’s stomach. Rhaegal tore into Viserion’s already damaged wing with his teeth, but it seemed to have little effect on the undead dragon. Viserion knocked into Rhaegal’s stomach again and sent him careening across the sky. For a moment Jaime thought they were going to crash, but the king seemed to regain control – he moved to charge at Viserion again but the dragon flew forward, blue flame pouring out of its mouth.

“Fire!” Jaime screamed, and everyone else turned their eyes to the sky and ducked. Wights were continuing to surround them and Jaime swung Widow’s Wail, one of the wights clamping its jaws on his arm before Jaime was able to strike it down. He cursed at the pain.

The undead dragon flew dangerously low and for a moment Jaime thought that they were all surely dead, but its flames were not directed at them. Sweeping over the North and South Towers, Viserion let out his fiery breath and the castle caught flame.

The buildings sagged, the roofs beginning to cave in, and Brienne screamed Podrick’s name. Jaime silently prayed that the boy was unharmed – it was Brienne who had sent him inside, and if he were to die he knew she’d blame herself. He let out a breath of relief when the boy ran out of the smoking building moments later, coughing from the ash and snow in his lungs, children and elderly from the Karstark household struggling along beside him. There was a wailing baby he was carrying in his arms. “My lady…I…”

He practically collapsed into Brienne’s arms and she helped him stand, picking up one of the terrified children. “We need to get them to safety.” She said. “We have to flee. _Now_.”

“I agree with the big lady!” Tormund Giantsbane yelled. “Let’s go!”

Podrick sputtered and coughed. “There’s…there’s someone…”

Jaime’s eyes went wide. “There’s someone still inside?” Podrick could only nod as he hacked desperately.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he began to run – in the wrong direction.

Bronn and Clegane were shouting at him, an assortment of insults along the lines of “you fucking idiot!” and “what are you doing, ya dumb blonde cunt?”, but he ignored them all.

“Jaime!” This was Brienne’s voice. “ _Jaime_!”

The sound of her desperate scream made Jaime hesitate for a moment, but he knew this was something he had to do. _I’m sorry, wench._ He thought to himself. Then he went inside.  

The smoke was accumulating quickly and he had to cover his mouth with the fabric of his tunic. “Hello?” He yelled, voice muffled by the fabric.

From upstairs, there was the sound of a faraway cry. “He – hello? I’m…I’m up here! Someone help!”

Jaime coughed as he took the stairs two at a time on the way up, the smoke making it harder to breathe and burning his eyes. There was not a doubt in his mind that the roof was going to cave in sooner or later - and his bets were on sooner. He'd have to hurry.

Through the haze he could see a flash of color. A red-haired girl who looked to be about in her mid-teens was sitting on the floor, a broken beam having fallen on top of one of her legs. “I can’t lift it.” She choked out. “It’s too heavy for me.”

Jaime crouched on his knees beside her. “Wrap your arm around me.” He said, and the girl did as she was told, leaning onto Jaime for support. The wooden beam was heavy and he grunted from the weight as he tried to push it off her leg. The smoke inhalation was only making him weaker, and it took Jaime two or three tries before the beam finally began to budge. The girl’s skirt was ripped and the top layer of skin had peeled off her leg, making her bleed, but it didn’t look broken.

The girl’s eyes went wide when she saw a flash of gold peeking out from his glove. “You’re Jaime Lannister.” 

There was no point in denying it - it wasn't a question. “I am.” He said. “You know my name – what’s yours?”

The girl coughed. “Alys. Alys Karstark.”

 _I’m saving the bloody Lady of Karhold._ Jaime would’ve laughed if the thick smoke in the room had allowed it. He gave the beam once last shove and it fell to the side, freeing Lady Alys. “Can you walk?” He asked her.

She nodded, looking less afraid than she had a moment ago. “Yes. I think so.” Jaime helped her stand and her grip on him tightened, Alys Karstark leaning on his shoulder as he stumbled back down the stairs.

Jaime could barely see an inch in front of him and his chest burned. Outside people were shouting and he couldn’t hear the dragons’ roars anymore, just the frantic screams and cries of a post-battle scene. He staggered out of the South Tower just as the roof collapsed in on itself with a great crack of flames. A pair of arms reached out to grab Lady Alys and Jaime wheezed, trying to take fresh air into his lungs and only hacking up smoke.

“He’s alive!” Someone screamed, and in his daze Jaime could not place the voice. He looked up and through his bleary eyes he could make out the form of Jon Snow. Jaime did not know when he’d landed – the Night King must have fled on Viserion, his goal of raising more members for his army having been accomplished.

“Let’s go.” The king said to someone. “Help me take him to Rhaegal.”

There was a large, warm hand on his arm, the touch gentle, and he heard Brienne’s voice. “Jaime.” He swore she sounded relieved. “Jaime, you’ll be all right. Come on, we have to go…”

He coughed. “Wench.” He managed to say before he collapsed into her awaiting arms, allowing her to lead him away from the smoldering ruins of Karhold…

* * *

**Melisandre** :

The crowd surged forward, crying out and begging to be let into the gates.

“Please, Your Grace!”

“King in the North!”

“Help us!”

 _Your king isn’t here._ Melisandre wanted to tell them, but she couldn’t exactly say she had seen Jon Snow in her flames, on dragonback flying to Karhold. Instead she tightened the hood of the ratty black cloak around her face, feeling naked without her traditional red.

A hand touched her throat and it was so strange to not feel her ruby there, just skin puckered with age. This was her true form and yet it didn’t feel like her. How wrong it felt to be living in this skin…

She turned her face up towards the sky, colored a foreboding grey, snow falling down and accumulating on her cheeks and lashes. What was it these Starks always said? _Winter is coming._ Yes, winter was coming and the enemy of her Lord with it. The fire warmed and cleansed, but the ice was cold and unforgiving. 

Around her, the crowd rushed forward, men screaming and raising their arms, women crying with children on their shoulders, all of them peasants from Winter’s Town with nowhere else to go. Melisandre realized that the gates to Winterfell were being opened.

“Help us, please!”

“We’re hungry!”

“Stark, Stark, Stark!”

A hush fell over them and Melisandre shoved through the throng so she could see. Some people shot her annoyed looks, but no one would tell off an old woman. That was one benefit to being without her ruby, at least. 

She reached the front and saw the beautiful red-haired girl, accompanied by a portly old man with a sigil of black studs decorating his cloak. _Sansa Stark._ The crowd cheered at the sight of her.

“Lady Stark!”

“Sansa, Sansa Stark!”

“Winterfell, Winterfell!”

The young woman turned to the Winterfell guards. “We’ll let them in.”

The man with her objected. “My lady,” He said incredulously.“You cannot mean to take them all?”

Sansa Stark turned to look at the lord beside her. She was winter’s daughter, but in that moment her gaze was fire. “My father once said that when you are a lord, every one of your people is like your child – it’s your duty to care for them, to love them and make sure they are safe. These are my people, Lord Royce, my children. So yes, I intend to help them all.” The lord – Lord Royce – still looked unsure, but he knew better than to object again. Sansa Stark turned to the guard. “They can all sleep in the great hall. I want someone to start a fire for them, and bring them bread and mulled wine. I’ll see each and every one of these people fed.”

The guard nodded. “Right away, Lady Stark.”

The people were cheering as they were granted access to Winterfell, and Melisandre even saw several women crying for joy.

“May the old gods bless you, Lady Stark!” Someone cried out.

“Ned Stark’s daughter, in truth!”

“Long live the Lady of Winterfell!”

Lady Stark stood in the open gates, a disgruntled Lord Royce by her side, and Melisandre watched as she greeted each and every peasant who came through. Some of them knelt before her, weeping, others kissed her hands or extended their babies for her to bless. The whole time Lady Stark smiled and welcomed them, not caring how long it took.  

Finally, it was Melisandre’s turn. She hobbled towards Lady Stark, who smiled kindly at her, taking her wrinkled hands in her own. “Welcome to Winterfell.” The young woman said. “You’ll be safe here.”

Melisandre bowed her head. “You have a gentle heart, Lady Stark.”

She almost felt bad for exploiting it.

* * *

**Jon** :

It was dark by the time they returned to Winterfell, and every part of his body felt sore. The leather armor he’d worn into battle was soaking wet from snow, his curls falling into his face in a tangled mess. Jon felt defeated, and all he wanted was to get some sleep and try to forget his problems for a few hours…

They’d taken down many wights and one White Walker at Karhold, but there were still thousands more, including the reanimated Umber and Karstark men the Night King had added to his ranks. His heart broke at the thought of little Ned Umber, whom Arya had slew for the second time. Whenever they thought they were winning the battle, more and more of the dead had fallen upon them in a seemingly unending charge, and though Jon had gotten a few hits at the Night King and Viserion, it hadn't been enough. How could they ever defeat the Night King when he outnumbered them, when he could turn every one of their fallen soldiers into members of his army?

As they disembarked Rhaegal, he noticed that Arya was clutching her bloody arm to her body and that she was having a hard time walking on her left leg, a rip in her pants exposing a nasty gash from a fall she’d taken. “You’re hurt.” Jon said to her. “You should see Wolkan.”

“I’m fine.” Arya insisted stubbornly, not missing a beat. “I’ve had a lot worse…” She tried to brush past him but Jon placed his hands on both her shoulders, stopping her.

“You fought bravely today, little sister.” He said honestly, and Arya gave him a weak smile at the compliment. “But you’re not invincible, and it’s okay to need help sometimes. Let me take you to Wolkan, you need to bandage that leg.”

“I don’t – ” Before Arya could finish her sentence, Gendry grabbed her from behind and picked her up, easily tossing her over his shoulder as if she were weightless. “Hey! Put me down, you stupid bull!”

“His Grace is right, and you shouldn’t be walking on that leg.” Gendry persisted, equally as stubborn. “I’m carrying you to the maester’s, m’lady.” Arya kicked and pummeled his back with her much smaller fists, but Gendry still refused to put her down, and finally she relented with an audible sigh.

“Fine. You two win this one. But if you think I’m standing on the sidelines for days or _weeks_ , don’t hold your breath. A little flesh wound can’t keep me out of this battle.”

Jon chuckled. “I figured you’d say that.”

As soon as they were through Winterfell’s gates, Sansa came running out to meet them, Sam following along behind pushing Bran in his wheelchair. Sansa practically launched herself at him, and Jon felt the tension leave his body as he hugged her back. “You were gone for hours. I was worried.” She paused and pulled back, noticing Arya slung over Gendry’s shoulder.

“Oh, this?” Arya said, trying to turn around so she could look at Sansa and almost elbowing Gendry in the nose in the process. “These two are just being overprotective.” Sansa raised an eyebrow.

All went quiet as Jaime Lannister walked through the gates and Jon could see surprise on Sansa’s face when she saw Lady Alys Karstark, leaning on the sellsword Bronn and Lady Brienne for support. “My lady,” Jon asked her. “Are you injured?”

Alys shook her head. “I’ll be all right, Your Grace. A piece of rubble just fell on my leg, is all. It’ll heal soon.”

“Let me escort you to the maester’s, my lady.” Sam said, nodding for Bronn and Brienne to follow him. The two started to lead the Lady of Karhold forward but Alys paused, looking back over her shoulder at Ser Jaime.

“Thank you for saving my life, ser.”

All eyes were on him now, and Jaime nodded stiffly. “It was nothing, my lady.” Bronn and Brienne then followed Sam to take her to the maester’s, Gendry following along with Arya still in his arms.

Sansa looked at Jaime. “You saved Lady Karstark? Why?”

Jaime Lannister looked thrown by the question. “Because she needed help.”

Silence hung thick and heavy in the air and Jon stared at the Kingslayer with a critical gaze, which was enough to make the other man avert his eyes. Jon still did not fully trust him, but he could not deny that the man had fought bravely today, and he’d saved Alys’s life. “I’ll tell someone to have a bed made for you.”

Jaime Lannister looked confused. “You’re not putting me back in a cell?”

Jon shook his head. “Not tonight.”

They all walked back inside the castle, Sansa announcing that she was retiring to her chambers, and Jon was about to ask Ser Davos and Ser Jorah to meet with him in private for a strategy session when Bran grabbed his arm. “She’s waiting for you in your chambers.” He said. It took Jon only a second to realize he meant Daenerys – she’d hadn’t come out to meet them upon their return. “I think there’s something she wants to tell you.”  

So Jon excused himself from the group and headed up the stairs. He was worried about the Night King, no doubt, but in the back of his mind there was a secondary problem plaguing him: Daenerys. Since their conversation in the crypts a few days before, she had made it clear that their romantic relationship could not continue – yet he could see in her eyes that she still loved him, as he loved her, and before the battle today she had even gone and _kissed_ him. Jon didn’t know where they stood, but if there was one thing he knew for certain in the confusing mess that was his life these days, it was that he loved Daenerys and he would marry her if he could. It truly did not matter to him that she couldn’t have children – he’d never expected to have any anyway, being a believed bastard and then a member of the Night’s Watch. It was a tempting fantasy, sure, but whenever he imagined what it would be like to have children, he found himself imagining his children with Daenerys. There was no one else he would want as his wife and the mother of his children. _I could still very well fall in battle,_ Jon thought. _And before that, I want her to know how I feel. She is the only one for me._

He opened the doors to his chambers and immediately stopped in his tracks.

Daenerys sat up on his bed, smiling softly. “You’re back.” Her long silver hair hung loose down around her face and she wore nothing but a chemise of violet silk, the color a shade lighter than her eyes. One of the fur blankets from his bed was wrapped around her shoulders and Ghost was draped across her, his head in her lap.

The sight of her sitting there felt so natural, it was enough to make him realize this was what he wanted to come home to every day for the rest of his life – however long or short that may be.

When he didn’t say anything right away, Daenerys scratched Ghost behind the ears and stood up, crossing the room to stand before him. “Jon, are you all right?”

He smiled tiredly at her. “I was just thinking about how beautiful you are. Can we talk?”

She pressed a feather light kiss to his cheek. “I have something I want to talk about too. But first – I had a bath drawn for you. And some food will be up here shortly.” Daenerys laughed quietly and ran a hand through his tangled hair. “You look like a mess, Jon Snow.”

The bath was heavenly, and then he changed into a clean undershirt and breeches before one of Dany’s handmaids came up with some supper. He tried to get Daenerys to eat too but she told him her stomach was upset. After continued poking and prodding from him, she finally agreed to meet him in the middle and had some water and bread.

After their plates had been cleared and Ghost had fallen asleep on the bed, they sat next to each other on the floor in front of the roaring fire. “How was it today?” Daenerys asked him, still nursing the cup of water he’d forced on her.

Jon hesitated before answering, rubbing his calloused hands in front of the flames. “We saved most of the Karstarks’ household, including Lady Alys. The Kingslayer saved her, actually…”

“The Kingslayer?” Daenerys repeated, incredulous.

“Aye. I’m still not the biggest fan of his, but no one can deny he fought bravely today.” He paused, turning to look at Daenerys. “I don’t know if we can win this war, Dany. I saw the Night King’s army and it is even greater than it was the last time. We had an advantage, with your three dragons, but now that he has Viserion…” He trailed off, worried that the talk of her lost son would upset her.

If it did, Daenerys did not show it. “I do not regret it, you know. As much as I mourn for Viserion, if I hadn’t gone beyond the Wall that day I would’ve lost you, and without you…Without you, I’d be lost. I wouldn’t know how to go on.”

“You would.” Jon insisted. “You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. You would go on.”

“Maybe so, but I wouldn’t want to.” Daenerys scooted closer to him and he took her hands in his own. “I’ve had a lot of time to think today…about us.”

“Oh?” He could practically feel his chest swell with hope. “What about us?”

Daenerys was silent for a long moment, so long he thought she was going to end the conversation there, but then she looked up at him. “I used to feel so alone in this world. I had no family. I lost my husband and my unborn son. I had nothing but my small _khalasar_ and my baby dragons, as we trudged along hopelessly in the desert. Those days there was one thing that kept me going: the thought of the Iron Throne. The promise of my birthright. But today I realized…” She paused, staring into the fire as if she was thinking back to something far away. “Today I realized that I didn’t want the Iron Throne because it was my birthright. I wanted it because if I were queen, I could make sure no one ever felt as hopeless as I did in that time. And the thought of the Iron Throne, the chair my father sat on, the chair that should’ve gone to my brother…it made me feel connected to them. My family I lost. I wanted to be a queen like my mother. I wanted to be strong like Rhaegar, to stand where he stood.” Her eyes met his, and he saw her violet eyes were full of unshed tears. “But now because of you, Jon Snow, I don’t feel so alone. I finally feel what it’s like to have a family, and to know love. I love you, Jon Snow.”

As soon as she had finished, he grabbed her face so he could kiss her on the lips. “I love you, Daenerys Targaryen. From this day, until the end of my days.” He pulled back to look at her, their noses brushing. “I want you to marry me.”

The first tear slipped from Daenerys’s eye. “Jon…”

“No, listen to me.” He said, taking one of her hands in both of his and squeezing it gently. “I don’t care if you can’t have children. I don't give a shit about the dynasty. You are the only woman I want, that I could ever want. Our future is so uncertain, but I am certain that I love you. So marry me, Daenerys Stormborn. Marry me and be my wife, for whatever days we have left.”

Daenerys stared at him for a long second, unspeaking, and then she surprised him by laughing. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that first part.”

His eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Dany smiled at him and touched his face. “Jon…my love…my king…” She said. “You were right.”

Now Jon was even more confused. “About what?”

“About the witch.”

“About the – ” Their conversation in the Dragonpit flooded back to him and his eyes widened. “You found out you can still have children?”

“Not exactly.” Daenerys said, and Jon was about to ask her what it was then, but she continued. “I found out that I’m pregnant.”

He stared at her, dumbfounded, and the meaning of the words didn’t register at first. _Surely I heard her wrong…I must have…_ “Did you just say…you’re pregnant?”

She nodded, looking like she was going to cry again, but she was smiling too. “Sam thinks I’m about two moonturns gone.”

Still, even hearing her reaffirm the words, he could scarcely believe it.

 _Pregnant._ Daenerys was pregnant.

The woman he loved was carrying their child, there was still hope for silver haired little girls or violet eyed little boys, and the joy he felt in that instant was greater than any he had ever experienced before in his life. “Oh, Dany…” She was both laughing and crying as he pulled her into his arms, so he could kiss her over and over again. “I love you…both of you…”

Dany buried her face into the crook of his neck. “I love you. More than anything. You’re my home, Jon Snow.”

Then the fear came crashing down.

The Long Night was still upon them, and then there was Cersei Lannister to deal with after that. Jon knew there was a chance that he could die in the forthcoming battle or that – gods forbid – Daenerys could. There was a chance that this child, this promise for the future that she carried, would not live to be born.

Jon wrapped his arms tighter around Daenerys and a resoluteness washed over him. _That won’t happen._ He thought to himself. _I will not let it._ He didn’t care if he had to die, but Daenerys and his siblings and now this baby…they had to survive. He would do everything in his power to make sure that they lived.

He pulled back to look at Daenerys, his hand falling to rest gently on her belly. “Promise me something,” He said to her. “Promise me that if I die – ”

“You won’t die.” Daenerys interjected stubbornly.

“ – _if_ I die, you’ll get on Drogon and go. Take Bran and my sisters, fly to Essos, and raise the baby somewhere safe.”

She started to protest again. “Jon – ”

“Promise me, Daenerys.”

She must’ve seen that he was serious, because she relented. “I promise.” She said. “But promise me you’ll try to live too. I want us to have a life together, all three of us.”

Jon kissed her on the top of her head. “I want that too.”

They held each other in silence for what felt like a long time, her face buried into his chest, his thumb rubbing circles on her belly, the only sound the crackling of the fire. Then, abruptly, Daenerys sat up and looked at Jon. “Yes.”

He frowned. “Yes what?”

“You asked me to marry you, and my answer is yes.”

Again joy surged through him. Daenerys Targaryen, the woman he loved, the mother of his child, had just agreed to be his wife. Jon laughed and kissed her again, soft and slow. “How about tomorrow then?”

Her violet eyes widened. “Tomorrow?”

“In the godswood after sunset. We both love each other and time is precious, so why wait? I want to be your husband, Daenerys Stormborn.”

Slowly, Daenerys smiled and then she laughed, throwing her arms around him and kissing his cheek. “I love you, Jon Snow. And I can’t wait to be your wife.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Theon II, Daenerys III, Gendry II, and Sansa III. This one is my personal favorite so far. There's a bit of happiness for everyone amidst all the chaos. With a little bit of angst too, of course.


	7. A Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon feels defeated; Daenerys promises herself to Jon; Gendry is confronted about his feelings; Sansa does something impulsive.

**Theon** : 

By the time they arrived at Winterfell, he had lost all feeling in his injured fingers.

Theon’s teeth were chattering as they arrived at the gates, clutching his hand to his chest while holding onto the reins of the elderly mare he rode with the other – the poor thing seemed like it might collapse at any moment. Theon had always been on the skinny side and it could barely hold his weight. Yara had helped wrap his hand in cloth and he’d changed the bandage when he woke up that morning, but blood was already starting to seep through the fabric. Days had passed since they’d left the Iron Islands and begun making their way inland, but his fingers still constantly ached.

 _I’ll see the maester at Winterfell_. Theon had silently repeated to himself every morn and night. _He’ll fix my hand, he’ll know what to do…_ But deep down, as Theon laid awake each night on the cold ground, he feared that he was going to lose the one thing that made him special.

The gates opened for them and they rode into the courtyard, Yara by his side. Despite the ordeal she’d been through, she still carried herself with the strength and confidence befitting a queen, her head held high, her hands waving off any concerns that Theon raised.

Theon jumped from his horse before moving to help Yara down, but she only shot him an annoyed look and shoved him away, indicating she was perfectly capable of disembarking by herself. A steward came to greet them. “Your Grace, Prince Theon, the King and Queen will surely be happy to hear that you’ve returned – ”

“We’ll speak with them later.” Theon said, wrapping an arm around his sister. “First, we need to see the maester.”

They went up to the maester’s room to wait, and Theon gingerly rubbed his hands before the fire. It hurt to even touch his bandage, but he welcomed the warmth. “You’ll need to let him look at your mouth.” He said to Yara, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “Don’t look at me like that. He needs to make sure you don’t get an infection.”

His sister scowled and leaned up against the bedframe. Even though she couldn’t talk, her expressions always let Theon know how she was feeling and even if he couldn’t catch on, Yara was more than happy to whack him upside the head and trace the words on his palm. Theon took her hits gladly. _At least she acts like the same old Yara._ He had been worried that what Euron had done to her would traumatize her, as he had once been traumatized after his own turmoil. 

The door opened and Theon sprang to his feet. “Maester Wolkan.” He recognized the older man from the Dreadfort. He was one of the only people there who hadn’t been cruel to him.

The maester smiled slightly. “It’s good to see you again – under better circumstances, thankfully.” He nodded at Yara. “This must be your sister. Pleasure to meet you, Your Grace.”

“You won’t get much chatter from her.” Theon said. “Our uncle saw fit to take her tongue. And he took something from me too.” He held up his bandaged hand. 

Wolkan instructed him to sit down at his desk and then retrieved his medical bag so he could examine Theon’s hand. He winced as Wolkan unwrapped his fingers and the sight was worse than he had hoped. The three middle fingers on his right hand were hanging onto the knuckles by mere threads of sinew and muscle, gone pale from the lack of blood flow, while the lower halves of his severed appendages were stained with both fresh and dried blood. “It seems the blade cut almost straight through.” Wolkan said. He touched one of the bloody stumps and Theon hissed from pain, instinctively pulling away.

“Sorry – it’s painful to touch.”

“I understand.” The maester said, digging around his bag. Theon felt a lump rise in his throat when Wolkan retrieved a sharp knife. “I’ll have to amputate these fingers at the knuckle. You’ll have to change the bandage and wash the wounds every day to prevent infection.”

“There’s nothing you can do to save the fingers?”

Wolkan shook his head. “The damage is done, I’m afraid.”

Theon gulped. “Do it then.”

The maester set out his instruments and washed Theon’s hand with water. He looked over his shoulder at Yara, who had now moved to stand by the window overlooking the courtyard. She tapped on the glass. Theon craned his neck to see that outside a couple of scullery maids were carrying a crate of vegetables to the kitchens. “A feast to celebrate the Queen of the Iron Islands?” Theon joked, but he was too upset over the state of his hand to sound jovial.

Wolkan got up to boil some water so he could sterilize the knife. “Have you not heard? His Grace is marrying the Targaryen queen tonight.”

Theon had not heard, but he found he wasn’t that surprised. _Daenerys Targaryen is a beautiful woman._ He thought. _Who could blame Jon for wanting a marriage alliance? Seven hells, if I still had a cock, I’d probably want to marry her too._ “Is that so?”

“I’m sure His Grace would be happy for his old friends to attend.”

Theon smiled wearily and shook his head. “I don’t know if I’m welcome.” He did not feel like celebrating tonight. Even though he’d killed Euron, any satisfaction he’d felt seemed to have waned. A wedding would just be another reminder to him that he’d never have a wife, never again feel what it was like to be inside a woman, never get to have a son that looked like him. He stared down at his right hand, lying limp on Wolkan’s desk. “I can’t even hold a bow and arrow.” He mused aloud, for once not caring if he sounded weak.

Yara came to stand next to him again and she crossed her arms over her chest. “What?” Theon said. “It’s true. How can I fight when I only have two fingers on my hand?” He needed all five of his fingers to hold his bow – a thumb and a pinky would do him little good.

Wolkan wiped down his tools and pulled out a chair to sit beside Theon. “You know, Jaime Lannister learned how to fight with his left hand.”

Theon scoffed. “The Kingslayer? He’s not nearly as good now, everyone knows that.”

“And yet he’s proven himself to be a valuable member of Their Graces’ forces. If you could train your other hand to hold the bow, and then pull with your remaining fingers…”

 _But I’ll never be as good as I once was._ Theon thought bitterly. The maester’s words were little consolation to him. _I’m a broken man. What good am I to anyone now?_ He nodded down at his hand. “Are you going to get on with it?”

Maester Wolkan looked at him warily. “You don’t want milk of the poppy?”

“No. Just do it. Please, just do it.”

Wolkan sighed. “All right then. This will hurt…”

He brought down the knife and Theon bit his tongue so hard that the hot, metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He did not scream. 

* * *

**Daenerys** :

She pirouetted in front of the mirror, examining how her skirts fluttered with each movement. The seamstress had done an excellent job, especially considering she received only a day’s notice. The gown was floor-length and made of ivory silk, with delicate gold detailing around the neck, shoulders and waist, and small roses on the bodice crafted out of blue lace. Though cinched at the waist, the dress was loose enough on top so that it did not irritate her increasingly sensitive breasts.

Daenerys turned sideways and pressed a hand over her belly. She wasn’t showing yet – her stomach wasn’t as flat as it had been a few months ago, but still small – and yet there had been so many signs she’d missed. Her swelling breasts, her increased tiredness, her feeling lightheaded…She never put the pieces together because she had been so certain that she could never conceive a child.

Dany knew that their position was precarious, but she felt cautiously hopeful. Jon had told her once that she had made an impossible thing happen when she birthed her dragons, and it gave him hope she could make other impossible things happen. Jon had done an impossible thing when he came back from the dead, and now they had made another impossible thing happen together. Maybe, just maybe, this miracle would work out as well as the others…

She was startled by the sound of the door opening and she jumped, her hands falling back to her sides. Daenerys didn’t want everyone to know about the baby yet, not when she was still so early on, and she didn’t want people to say that she and Jon were only getting married because of her pregnancy. Luckily, it was only Ser Jorah. “Am I interrupting something, Your Grace?”

“Not at all, Ser Jorah. I actually wanted to have a word with you…”

He crossed the room to meet her and pulled out her crown, the only gift she had kept from Qarth, with its three-headed dragon made of silver and gold, the heads carved from jade, ivory, and onyx to match the colors of her beloved dragons. “I thought you might need this.”

Daenerys smiled at him. “Put it on me.”

Carefully, Jorah nestled the crown in her silver gold hair, which Missandei had painstakingly brushed and braided and fussed over with earlier. Daenerys smiled at her reflection. _Perfect_. She couldn’t wait for Jon to see her.

“Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”

“Actually,” Daenerys said. “Yes.” She turned around to face Ser Jorah and took one of his hands. “My friend, I hope you know that I appreciate everything you have done for me.”

“It was nothing, Your Grace…”

“Well it meant something to me. I feel blessed now to have Jon, and all my friends and advisors…but _you_ , Ser Jorah, you’ve always been there. Back before I was the Mother of Dragons. Back when I was…well, a nobody. I hope you know how dearly I treasure you, my lord.” She paused, biting her lip. “I’ve been told that traditionally the bride’s father should escort her to the ceremony. But since I don’t have one of those, I was wondering if you would. Escort me, I mean. It’s silly, I know, but it would mean a lot to me.”

When she looked at Ser Jorah again, she swore he had a tear in his eye. He extended his arm and she threaded hers through his. “It would be my honor, my queen.”

~

The way to the godswood was illuminated with candles, along the path and in the trees. Daenerys tightened her hold on Ser Jorah’s arm, her stomach fluttering. “Nervous, Your Grace?” He asked her.

Daenerys smiled. “No.” The night she had married Khal Drogo she’d been nervous, terrified even, but tonight she felt only excitement. _Wait until Jon sees me._ She thought with delight. _I daresay_ he _may be the one fainting this time…_

They entered the godswood. The heads of each Northern house had been invited to attend and they each bowed their heads respectfully to her as she passed. Lady Lyanna was smirking and gave Ser Jorah a nod of approval, which made him smile. She saw Lord Tyrion and Ser Davos, both looking happy for her, and Missandei was holding onto Grey Worm’s arm. She was looking at Daenerys, but Grey Worm only had eyes for her. Varys nodded his head, the wildling Tormund was making eyes at Brienne of Tarth, the smith Gendry looked unsure of why he’d been invited, and Sandor “the Hound” Clegane looked like he was ready for the reception afterwards. There was Samwell Tarly, with his wildling love and their child, and an excited looking Arya Stark standing behind her brother Bran, who Daenerys swore looked a little less stoic than usual…

Under the heart tree, Sansa Stark stood front and center, the officiant for the ceremony since she was the Lady of Winterfell and head of House Stark. Daenerys was still not sure how her soon-to-be-goodsister felt about her, but she was glad the young woman had agreed to do it. _Maybe we’re not quite friends yet, but at least she doesn’t hate me._ Daenerys thought. She silently told herself that she would somehow befriend her, no matter how long it took.

Then, there he was. Jon, her Jon, looking dashing in a black surcoat trimmed with Targaryen red and Stark grey. He wore the simple crown of the Kings in the North. Her husband-to-be turned around and she saw a smile light up his face when violet eyes met grey. 

Never did she ever think she would find someone like him. Someone who was good and kind and strong, brave and loyal and true. She loved him more and more with every day, if that was even possible. In just a few moments she would be his wife and they had this child growing in her womb, this life their love had made. Selfishly, Daenerys hoped for a little girl. _I never had a mother to braid my hair or kiss my cheeks or tuck me into bed, but I could do that with my daughter._ She thought. But she also knew that if she had a son – perhaps with Jon’s dark curls and her violet eyes – she would love him to pieces, like she never got to do with the son she lost before birth. _A boy like Jon would be wonderful too._ She silently decided. _Boy or girl, I hope it is like him…_

They reached the heart tree now and Ser Jorah squeezed her arm gently. “Who comes?” Sansa Stark asked. “Who comes before the old gods this night?”

“Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen,” Ser Jorah proclaimed. “The First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhonyar, and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Lady Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

Jon stepped forward. “I do. King Jon of Houses Stark and Targaryen, First of My Name, the…” He trailed off and looked at Missandei. She’d been up half the night last night brainstorming titles for Jon with Daenerys, but her intended had taken little interest in the discussion, and seemingly couldn’t remember what they'd agreed on now.

Missandei cleared her throat. “King Jon Warborn of Houses Stark and Targaryen, the First of His Name, the Resurrected, King of the Andals, the Rhonyar, and the First Men, 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Friend of the Free Folk, Protector of the Realm, Lord Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms, Slayer of the Undead, and the White Wolf.”

Jon balked at the rattling list. “Umm…yes. I claim her. Who gives her?”

“Ser Jorah of House Mormont, her loyal advisor.”

Daenerys smiled at him. “And friend.”

Jorah smiled too. “Yes, and friend. Queen Daenerys, will you take this man?”

“I take this man.”

Ser Jorah kissed her on the cheek and Daenerys whispered her thanks to him, before letting go of him to take Jon’s outstretched hand. Jorah moved to stand next to his cousin and Jon pulled Daenerys forward, so they were now standing face to face. “You look beautiful.” He mouthed at her.

Daenerys grinned. “I love you.” She mouthed back.

Lady Sansa instructed for them to kneel for silent prayer and Daenerys folded her hands, staring up at the heart tree. She did not know much of the Stark gods and had very little experience with gods in general. She didn’t know what to ask them, and decided to just speak from her heart. _Old gods,_ She prayed silently. _Protect Jon in the wars to come. Protect this child, who we already love so much. Give me guidance in the days to come, old gods, and the wisdom to know how to be the best wife and queen that I can…_

After a few moments they rose again and Jon unfastened the cloak from her shoulders, which bore the Targaryen three-headed dragon. Even though they planned to rule under the Targaryen name, Daenerys had asked that they still perform the exchanging of the cloaks. She wanted to show the Northern lords that she respected their culture. Arya passed off the bride’s cloak to Jon, which had the direwolf of the Starks. _And I want to be a part of this family._ Daenerys thought. She already liked Arya and considered her a sister, but she also wanted to dig deeper past Bran’s contained façade, to bond with Sansa so maybe they could come to love each other. Jon fastened the new cloak around her shoulders.

She heard Lady Sansa’s words, but she did not tear her eyes away from Jon. “This man and this woman have promised themselves before the old gods this night, joining themselves in holy matrimony, and now they are husband and wife. What the gods have joined together, may no man tear asunder.”

* * *

**Gendry** : 

Due to the winter rationing, they didn’t have a lot of food at the wedding feast: bread, chicken, cheese, onions, turnips. But the alcohol was flowing freely, wine and mead and beer. At their table, Ser Davos was teaching Beric Dondarrion a Flea Bottom drinking song that Gendry recognized. Tormund Giantsbane was on his fourth or fifth drinking horn and he tried to grab Lady Brienne for a dance, but she jumped up from the table, looking uncomfortable, saying she was going to bring some food to Jaime Lannister and Ser Bronn – though they were now staying in chambers instead of jail cells, they had not been invited to the wedding celebrations either. Tormund didn’t seem affected by her refusal, however, and went to dance by himself, accidentally knocking into Jorah Mormont, who had been roped into dancing by his little cousin. “You _do_ still know how to dance like a Northerner, don’t you?” Lady Lyanna had said to him.

Gendry, meanwhile, was nursing the same cup of wine that had been poured for him hours ago. He had never been to a highborn wedding before and he felt incredibly out of place. He glanced over his shoulder to see King Jon and Queen Daenerys sitting in the spots of honor on the dais, staring into each other’s eyes, the king pulling his new bride in close for a gentle kiss. Lady Sansa was having a conversation with Yohn Royce that it looked like she didn’t want to be in, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. Bran Stark had the same look of passive disinterest that he always seemed to have – the boy confused Gendry, really – and then he saw Arya, who was laughing out loud at something that Podrick Payne had said to her. She turned her head in his direction and Gendry looked away before their eyes could lock, taking a long gulp of his wine.

“What are you whinging about now, boy?”

Gendry glared at the Hound from over the rim of his cup. “I’m not _whinging_.”  

“Yes you fucking are.” The Hound rolled his eyes and took another huge bite of chicken. “I’ve heard he has a magic cock, you know.”

Gendry froze. “A magic _what_?”

“You heard me.” The Hound snorted. “Worried that your precious wolf bitch is going to lose her maidenhead tonight, is that it?”

“Don’t talk about her like that.” Gendry said a little too snappily. He tried to ignore Clegane’s words, but the mental image was already there: Arya kissing Podrick Payne. Arya taking her clothes off for Podrick Payne. Arya opening her legs for Podrick Payne… _It’s none of your business who she likes._ Gendry told himself. _She’s a woman grown, she can fuck whoever she wants._ Still, part of him wanted to march over there and punch the squire in the face. He looked back at the Hound. “And don’t talk with your mouth open.”

The Hound scowled at him and spit a chicken bone out on the table.

The band finished their bawdy drinking song and began again, this time with a smoother, softer melody. The handsome male singer closed his eyes as he began his song. “ _My featherbed is deep and soft, and there I'll lay you down. I'll dress you all in yellow silk, and on your head a crown…_ ”

Gendry glanced back over in Arya’s direction and watched as Podrick Payne – in an uncharacteristic display of boldness, probably inspired by some liquid courage – reached for Arya’s hand. His lips moved and Gendry thought he asked her to dance. Arya looked uncertain at first, but then the squire dragged her to the floor and she laughed, blushing. Gendry could feel his face grow hot.

“ _For you shall be my lady love, and I shall be your lord. I'll always keep you warm and safe, and guard you with my sword_ …”

Podrick Payne’s hands came to rest on Arya’s hips awkwardly, and he stepped on her toes a few times as he tried to sway to the music. Gendry drained the rest of his cup and when he turned to look back around, the Hound was smiling at him knowingly. “What?” Gendry snapped. “I don’t care who she dances with. It means nothing to me.”

The Hound rolled his eyes again and stole a leg of chicken off Gendry’s plate. “Right. You _really_ look like you don’t give a shit right now…”

“Gendry Waters?”

He jumped in his seat and turned around, finding Queen Daenerys standing before him, a warm smile on her face. “Care to dance this one with me?”

For a moment, Gendry’s words escaped him. The queen had not spoken to him in days, not since the road to White Harbor at least – she hadn’t even been the one to inform him of her wedding, that had all been Jon. Part of him wondered if this was some kind of trap. “Shouldn’t you be dancing with your new husband, Your Grace?”

“Jon is with his sister.” Sure enough, when Gendry looked he saw that Jon was now spinning Sansa around, prying a reluctant smile out of her. Daenerys extended her hand to him. “Dance with me, Gendry Waters. Your queen commands it.”

With no other choice, Gendry got up and followed the queen out onto the floor, the Hound raising a chicken leg in salute to him as he went. Daenerys grabbed his hands and placed them in the proper positioning, taking his left in her right and placing the other on her lower back. Gendry felt himself blush. “Don’t worry,” The Mother of Dragons said to him. “I’ll lead.”

 _She takes command even on the dance floor._ Gendry thought, unsurprised. “Of course, Your Grace.”

They swayed silently for a moment and Gendry stared over her shoulder, watching as Podrick accidentally stepped on Arya’s foot yet again. Arya made a face and Podrick gave her what looked like an apology. “ _And how she smiled and how she laughed, the maiden of the tree_ …”

“What are you staring at so intently, Gendry Waters?”

Gendry looked away quickly and found Daenerys Targaryen smiling at him. “Nothing, Your Grace. And you don’t have to call me ‘Gendry Waters’, you know – my father never acknowledged me. I have no last name.”

“And you don’t have to keep calling me ‘Your Grace’. ‘Daenerys’ is quite sufficient.”

“Sorry, Your – I mean, _Daenerys_.”

The Mother of Dragons stared intently at him for a moment and Gendry wondered what he had done wrong this time. He was surprised when she finally said: “I feel I owe you an apology.”

Gendry nearly dropped her hands and stood frozen in the middle of the floor. Around them the other couples continued to spin and sway. “What?”

“I owe you an apology.” Daenerys repeated. “For how… _unseemly_ I behaved on our passage to White Harbor. I don’t trust easily, you see, not that that’s any excuse for my behavior…”

“Oh, that? It was nothing – ”

“No, no, no, I _insist_ you let me apologize!”

Gendry flushed. “Very well, Your – _Daenerys_.”

The Mother of Dragons giggled. “We’re related, you and I.” She told Gendry. “Did you know that?”

Gendry racked his mind, but came up empty. He knew very little about royal history, having received no formal education as a child. It occurred to him for the first time that he didn’t even know the history of his father’s family, and he felt ashamed as he shook his head. _At least stupid Podrick Payne can read._ He thought bitterly. “I did not.”

“Aegon V’s daughter Rhaelle married Ormund Baratheon. Her son was Steffon Baratheon, and his sons were Robert, Stannis, and Renly – your father and uncles. Rhaelle’s brother Jaehaerys and sister Shaera were my grandparents. That makes us second cousins once removed, if I have my history correct. And Jon your third cousin.” She looked over her shoulder and her violet eyes settled on Arya, who scrunched up her nose as Podrick Payne kissed her hand. “But don’t worry, you’re not related to her – different sides of the family.”

“ _She spun away and said to him, no featherbed for me…_ ”

Gendry reluctantly tore his eyes away from Arya to look at Daenerys. Maybe this was why she wanted to talk to him. _She wants to scold me because she doesn’t think I’m fit for Arya. Well, she’ll be excited to know that I don’t have a chance with her anyway…_ “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“ _I’ll wear a gown of golden leaves and bind my hair with grass…_ ”

The Mother of Dragons seemed to know what he was thinking. “I’m not trying to trick you.” She said. “I don’t want you to feel uneasy with me, cousin. I’ve had a lot of time to think, and…I don’t have much family left in this world. Nor do you, I believe?”

“ _But you can be my forest love, and me your forest lass._ ” Everyone else in the room clapped as the band finished their song, but Gendry and Daenerys remained planted in the middle of the floor unmoving, his hand still uncomfortably on her back as the band started up again, this time with “Oh, Lay My Sweet Lass Down in the Grass”. Jon and Sansa had returned to the dais, and a drunken Tormund Giantsbane was now standing on the table yelling for the band to sing “The Last of the Giants”, but all Gendry could notice was Arya still talking to Podrick Payne, telling him something which made him laugh…

 _Arya offered to be my family,_ He thought. _And I was a stupid, bull-headed boy who refused her, and now she’s smiling at Podrick Payne._ On the outside, Gendry only shook his head. “My mother died when I was little. I had half-siblings, I suppose, but King Joffrey killed them all. I never got to know them, nor my father neither.”

Daenerys Targaryen gave him what seemed to be a look of genuine sympathy. “I hope that we can trust one another from now on, Gendry Waters. I’ve had time to observe your character, and I know I was wrong about you. And Jon told me about how you ran back to Eastwatch, to alert Ser Davos that day – I am in your debt, ser. If there is anything I can do for you, anything at all, just ask.”

It was a kind offer, but Gendry didn’t like to accept handouts from highborns. “Thank you.” He said. “I’ll remember that.”

Daenerys detangled herself from him and turned to return to her husband. Tormund was now singing “The Last of the Giants” at the top of his lungs, drowning out the annoyed looking musicians, and Brienne of Tarth walked back into the great hall only to immediately turn and leave again when she saw the sight. Daenerys Targaryen paused and looked at Gendry again. “Can I give you some unsolicited advice? Gods only know how much time we have left. I know you think she could never return your affections…but it’s worth a shot. In my opinion, it looks like Lady Arya cares for you a great deal.”

Gendry recoiled. “How did you…?”

The Mother of Dragons smiled at him. “I’m married to a former bastard, Gendry Waters. I know how they think.”   

* * *

**Sansa** : 

At the same time Gendry and Daenerys were having their conversation, Sansa was dancing a set with Jon, one of her arms around his neck as her eyes scanned the room. Everyone around her seemed to be having fun, drinking, dancing, laughing, talking, enjoying a night off from the thought of the war.

But as much as Sansa tried, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. She’d only just gotten her family back and now there was a chance they would be taken from her again. How long would they even have, a few days? Perhaps a week at most. Sansa had sworn to herself when she returned to Winterfell that she would not let others control her fate, not anymore, and now she was back to that same desperation she’d worked so hard to escape…

“What are you thinking about, sister?” Jon asked her.

Sansa forced a smile. “How happy I am for you.”

Her brother laughed. “You almost sounded like you meant it.”

“I _am_ happy for you!” She wanted to be, anyway. Jon seemed happy with his Dragon Queen, but Sansa hardly knew her new goodsister, and Yohn Royce was still talking in her ear constantly about the instability of Targaryens. It was exhausting. Under different circumstances she would’ve been ecstatic at Jon’s wedding, and she would’ve helped her goodsister with her dress and her hair, and everything would’ve been perfect. But they were in the middle of a war and Sansa didn’t know if any of them would even survive the next moonturn.

Jon was staring at her thoughtfully and she could tell from the look on his face that he was thinking very hard about something. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Sansa’s eyebrow shot up. “Oh?”

“It’s not a bad thing. It’s good. In fact, I think it’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me…”

“What is it?”

Jon sucked in a nervous breath. “Daenerys and I are going to have a baby.”

Around them the musicians were continuing to play and the others were continuing to dance, but Sansa froze in place and stared at Jon, mouth agape. “A baby?”

“Yes.” Jon couldn’t contain his grin and Sansa didn’t know the last time she’d seen him smile like that. “You’re going to be an aunt.”

_An aunt._

Sansa opened her mouth, but no words came out at first. “That’s…that’s…”

“I know it’s unexpected. We only found out yesterday, and I just told Arya – I wish you had been there to see her face when she heard! I thought she was going to explode from excitement. I haven’t said anything to Bran, but I suspect he already knows. He seems to know quite a lot these days…”

Sansa cut him off. “Jon, a _baby_? Now?”

The song ended and another began, and Jon took her arm to lead her back to the dais. Sansa picked up her cup of wine where she’d left it and drained it in one long gulp. “It’s not like we were planning it.” Jon explained. “But Sansa, we’re adding a new member to the pack. It’s a miracle, let’s just be happy for one moment…”

“I am happy for you, but I…” She trailed off. Under different circumstances the prospect of being an aunt would have thrilled her, and she would’ve hugged Jon and kissed him and told him what a wonderful father he would be. _But the Night King is marching down here to kill us all and we will all probably be dead this time next week._ She thought cynically. _Chances are this baby will never be born. Gods Jon, you lovable idiot, why couldn’t you have spared yourself the heartache?_ “I don’t want you to get hurt, is all.” 

“Don’t think like that.”   

“Why shouldn’t I?” Sansa said, and she immediately regretted the way she snapped at him. “I’ve already lost my parents and two of my brothers. I don’t want to lose any more family members.”

Their conversation effectively ended when her new goodsister walked over, Daenerys wrapping her arms around Jon from behind. Beaming, her brother turned around to pull his new wife in for a deep kiss. While he was distracted, Sansa slipped away undetected and stole a flagon of wine from a passing serving girl.

Tonight seemed like a good night to get incredibly drunk.

~

She awoke hours later to someone gently prodding her shoulder and whispering her name. “Lady Sansa?”

She opened her bleary eyes and blinked, feeling a crick in her neck and hair plastered to her face. The feast seemed to be ending, with only a few drunken stragglers remaining and several others passed out in the great hall. Tyrion Lannister was standing before her, looking concerned. “My lord?”

“You’ve had quite a lot to drink. Come on, let me escort you to your room.”

The Hand of the Queen helped her stand up and Sansa immediately felt a throbbing pain in her head. She’d never been drunk before – a little tipsy, yes, but never like this. “You haven’t been drinking?” Once the words came out of her mouth she immediately regretted asking such a question. _He probably thinks I think he’s a drunk now. Oh gods, I’m an idiot…_

“I’ve had a lot on my mind.” Tyrion said vaguely. “I needed a clear head.” The castle was much quieter now as together they walked down the hall and up the stairs towards Sansa’s chambers, Sansa having to lean on Tyrion for support.

Her throat felt so dry she could barely speak. “The queen is pregnant.” When she glanced at Tyrion, he did not seem surprised by this news.

“Yes, she told me. Ordinarily this would be wonderful news, to be having an heir, but…well Lady Sansa, you know this is a dangerous time.”

“Yes,” She sighed. “Yes it is indeed.”

They reached her darkened chambers now and Tyrion helped her onto the bed, before going to light a candle. He muttered something about how it was too damn cold in the North and she should have a fire lit. Sansa was so drunk the room seemed to be spinning. All she wanted to do was sleep. She started to undo the laces on her dress and when Tyrion turned back around, his eyes widened.

“What are you doing?”

“Undressing, what does it look like I’m doing?”

“Here?”

“Well, this is my room.”

Was Tyrion Lannister actually blushing? He turned around to stare at the wall, not looking back at her the whole time Sansa stripped down to her smallclothes. She reached into one of her drawers and retrieved a nightgown, slipping it over her head and then pulling her messy hair out of her face with a ribbon. _He doesn’t want to watch me change._ She realized. It was an odd thought, considering this man had once been her husband. On their wedding night he’d seen her in her shift, but then he’d made her stop and passed out drunk on the sofa. _He was my husband once and he’s never slept beside me. He was my husband once and I’ve never even kissed him…_

“You can look now.” She said, her voice hoarse.

Tyrion turned back around but still kept his gaze politely averted. “Well, now that you’ve found your bed, I probably should get going…”

He moved to leave but Sansa called out for him without even realizing it at first. “Wait.” She paused, trying to think of something else to say as Tyrion stared at her expectantly. “Could you…help me into bed?”

Without complaint, Tyrion Lannister tucked her into bed as if she were a small child and Sansa pulled her knees to her chest, watching as the man who she had once condemned as a depraved monster fluffed her pillow.

“You’re so nice to me. My lord, why are you so nice to me?”

He laughed off her question. “My lady, you are very drunk…”

Before he could try to leave again, Sansa bolted upright in bed. “My lord…I want to apologize to you. For how I treated you when we were married.”

Tyrion stared at her and looked thrown by her statement. There was very little that seemed to surprise him, but this had. “You don’t owe me an apology.”

“But I was so cruel to you – ”

“You were a child. A poor, scared child, forced into a marriage you did not want, and yet…” He hesitated.

Sansa leaned forward and kicked the blankets off, undoing all of the work Tyrion had just done. “And yet?”

His voice was so low she had to strain to her it. “And yet I wanted you.”

This surprised Sansa. “You could’ve consummated the marriage, you could’ve…” She trailed off. All the other men she knew had been takers. Joffrey with his threats to slip into her bed and rape her in the night. Ramsay who had not only threatened to do horrible things to her, but actually _had_ done horrible things to her. Just the thought of his cruel face made her skin prickle and she crossed her arms over her chest, like a shield from the rest of the world. Even Littlefinger, who she once thought she could trust, had kissed her and made it clear that he lusted for her. Back when she married Tyrion she thought there was no one in the world who could be a worse husband. _And he was the only one who respected me._ Sansa thought. _The only one who respected my right to say ‘no’…_ It was ironic, but she wasn’t laughing.

Tyrion Lannister looked away and turned his body, as if to go. “You don’t owe me anything, Lady Sansa. Just because I treated you with basic human decency, that doesn’t mean you’re in my debt…”

Her head spinning, Sansa grabbed him by the collar of his jerkin to pull him closer to her. “I wish you had taken my maidenhead.” She confessed. “I know we weren’t in love, but…” Tears blurred her vision now, so much she could barely see. “You were never cruel. You would’ve treated me gently, and if we consummated then Lord Baelish wouldn’t have been able to…” Her voice broke and she gulped, in an effort to hold back her tears. “Maybe we could have fallen in love. Maybe we could’ve been happy.”

Tyrion met her eyes. “Maybe we could have.”

All she’d ever wanted as a girl was to find love. And now here she was, twenty years old, once divorced and once widowed, crying drunkenly in the darkness of her bedroom because of how lonely she felt. Jon had his Dragon Queen and his child on the way, and even Arya seemed to have admirers aplenty…Maybe Tyrion had been her one chance at true love. Maybe she had squandered it.  

She burst into tears. 

Tyrion looked confused, and unsure of how to comfort her. “Lady Sansa…are you…are you all…?”

“No,” She choked out. “I'm not all right…I'm…I'm ruined.”  

“You're not ruined.”  

“Yes I am! What if I…what if I can't feel anything anymore? What if Joffrey, and Ramsay…what if they took something from me that I can't ever get back?”  

She was still crying as Tyrion closed the distance between them and wrapped her into a hug. “You're not ruined.” He said quietly, but firmly. “You're kind, and intelligent, and brave, and beautiful. You will be happy again someday, Lady Sansa, I promise you.”  

Sansa sniffled, her tears beginning to subside. “Thank you, Lord Tyrion.”   

She pulled back just enough so that they could look into one another's eyes, neither speaking. Her heart was pounding in her ears and for a moment the world seemed to stop spinning. Sansa wasn't sure if she leaned in first, or if he did, but their lips met. 

The kiss was slow and tentative at first, but then stronger and more desperate. Tyrion seemed unsure at first but then he began to kiss her back, a hand moving to cradle the back of her head. It occurred to Sansa that she didn’t know what she was supposed to do now – she’d had a chaste kiss from Joffrey back when she still thought of him as the perfect prince, and Ramsay had never kissed her when he did what he did. Awkwardly she tried to grant her tongue entry into his mouth, in an effort to deepen the kiss…

Immediately, Tyrion jumped backwards.

Sansa opened her eyes. “Did I…did I do something wrong?”

Tyrion couldn’t look at her now. He looked disgusted. _With me?_ She wondered. Maybe he couldn’t love her now, maybe no one could…

“I won’t have you.” The Hand of the Queen said. “Not like this.”

“My lord – ”

“Goodnight, Lady Sansa.” Then he promptly fled from the room and shut the door, leaving her alone in the dark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Jon IV, Melisandre III, Davos III, Arya III. 
> 
> Don't know when the next chapter will be up because I've barely started it and I have a lot of work to do before the end of the semester, but comments/kudos/words of encouragement are always appreciated. Thanks for being such great readers and putting up with me!


	8. Old Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Daenerys discuss the future the morning after their wedding; unexpected visitors arrive at the gates of Winterfell; Davos receives a warning from an old adversary; Arya has an epiphany about her feelings for Gendry.

**Jon** :

He awoke to light filtering in through the window and smiled when he felt Daenerys nuzzle closer against his bare chest. _She’s my wife._ Jon thought with reverence. Last night had been a dream and he didn’t want to wake up from it just yet. In the midst of their precarious situation, being with Daenerys made him feel a semblance of joy – as much happiness as one could find when they were in the midst of a losing battle against an undead army. When he watched her walk towards him in the godswood last night, he’d thought that he had never seen anyone more beautiful in his life. It had meant so much to him to marry in front of the Stark gods, to know that his family had given their seal of approval to his marriage and that Dany respected how important the Northern culture was to him.

Of course, Sansa still wasn’t sure. When he told Arya that he was marrying Dany and then that they were having a baby, she had practically tackle hugged him and he swore she almost cried. Bran was different now, and not as emotional as he used to be, so his response of disinterested unsurprise hadn’t been what Jon was hoping for, but at least it hadn’t been disapproval. He’d been hopeful when Sansa agreed to perform the wedding ceremony, but when he told her of Daenerys’s pregnancy he had watched all the color drain from her face. He couldn’t fault her for that, he supposed – he certainly would not have _planned_ to have a child when they were on the brink of war, but it had happened nevertheless and he couldn’t help but feel excited. For just one night he wanted to pretend that he was a normal man, in love and newlywed and soon to be a father, but it seemed Sansa’s newfound pragmatism made that impossible for her, and he would be lying if he said that her comments hadn’t gotten to him…

Daenerys stirred in his arms then, opening her eyes sleepily. Jon kissed the top of her head. “Good morning, my beautiful wife.”

Daenerys grinned at the final word he used. “Good morning, my husband.” She said huskily, kissing him on the lips. “You tired me out last night.”

After the feast was over they had stumbled back to their room, laughing and kissing and crying from joy, and they’d barely been able to make it to Jon’s room – no, _their_ room now – before losing themselves in each other. They’d savored each other’s bodies with each gentle caress and desperate thrust, and once Jon had just pulled back to look at his wife in all her glory, wondering to himself what he had done to deserve something as perfect as her…

“Well,” Jon said to her now. “I just wanted to make sure my new bride knew how much I loved her. How I worshipped her…”

Dany giggled. “And you did. Up against the wall. And on the floor by the fire. And then a few more times in the bed…”  

They kissed again, deeper this time. As much as Jon wished they could spend all day in bed, it was time to go back to reality and they had a war to win. _You need to go out there and come up with a plan._ He reminded himself. _A plan so that your wife and your siblings and your child can survive._ Reluctantly, he pulled away and kissed Dany once more, chastely this time. “We have to get up, my love.” Unfortunately, they could not live in this bed forever.

They dressed and walked hand-in-hand to the library where Tyrion was waiting for them, some heavy tome upon on the desk in front of him. “Your Graces,” He said when he saw them enter. “I trust you had a…productive evening last night?”

Jon flushed. “Yes, we umm…discussed strategy.”

“You can just say you were fucking. Everyone in the castle could hear you anyway.”

Daenerys’s cheeks turned red, but then she turned her attention to the two figures standing by the window. “So good to see our friends from the Iron Islands again.” Jon watched as she rushed over to the window to embrace Yara, leaving Theon to stand there awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other. “When did you arrive?”

Dany was asking Yara, but she only looked to Theon, prodding him to answer. “Yesterday morning.”

“Why didn’t you come to the wedding, then? We would’ve been happy to have you.”

“We were…tired.” Theon said, glancing warily at Yara. “Pardon my sister. She’s not…feeling very talkative, Your Grace.”

“But why wouldn’t she be…?” Daenerys cut herself off, her face lighting up with realization. She touched Yara’s shoulder. “Euron will pay for what he has done to you, my friend. We will get justice, I promise you.”

Confused, Jon glanced at Lord Tyrion, who stuck out his tongue and mimed the act of cutting it off. Jon gulped. He had forgotten about Euron Greyjoy’s reputation for collecting tongues…

“Justice has already been served, Your Grace.” Theon replied to Daenerys. “Our uncle is dead.”

Jon and Daenerys stared at Theon in shock, and Tyrion surprised them all by throwing his head back laughing. “Euron Crow’s Eye, done in by a woman and a eunuch! How I wish I could’ve seen the look on his face!”

Daenerys ignored him and looked back to Theon and Yara. “What of the Iron Fleet?”

“Still in King’s Landing with Cersei. We have Euron’s new ships though – about a hundred, same as the Iron Fleet, but not nearly as big. Some of the crew agreed to serve Yara as their new queen, and those who would not were put to the sword.”

Jon looked at him curiously. “You put them to the sword?”

He swore he saw a ghost of a smile on Theon’s face. “I passed the sentence. I swung the sword.”

They were interrupted when the door opened again. “Your Grace,” Missandei said. “Lord Varys and Ser Jorah are here.”

The two men came in and Grey Worm appeared a few moments later, followed by Sansa a few moments after that. In truth his sister knew little about military strategy, but she was the Lady of Winterfell and Jon had invited her to counsel with them as a sign of good faith. Even if she was no warrior, she was intelligent. Missandei closed the door behind Sansa and Jon gave her a curious look. “Arya’s not coming?”

Sansa shook her head. “I went to see if she was up, but she threw a pillow at me and told me if I ever woke her before the sun rose again, she would stab me.” She shrugged. “I doubt she really meant it, but I don’t want to test my theory.”

“Well then,” Daenerys said. “Shall we begin?” Sansa averted her gaze and slipped into a chair besides Lord Varys. Jon frowned. He wanted his wife and his sister to get along, since they were two of the most important women in his life, but he didn’t know how to reconcile them. They were both strong-willed women, and neither of them would bend easily.

“Your Grace,” Grey Worm said, bringing Jon’s thoughts back to the present. “I’ve spoken to all of the Unsullied and we unanimously wish to be your first line of defense. Allow us to protect you and your people.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Daenerys replied. “But I would much prefer to spread out the members of the Unsullied across the battlefield. They say that you should not place all your eggs in one basket, do they not? I value your army’s strength too much to risk you all at once.”

Grey Worm nodded. “Very well, Your Grace, but I still wish to lead the charge against this undead army.”

“As do I, Your Grace.” Ser Jorah added. “I have fought the White Walkers before, beyond the Wall and at Karhold. I’ve seen their strengths and weaknesses firsthand, and I can look out for Grey Worm on the field of battle.”

Jon saw Daenerys looked uncertain. “I do not want you to get yourself killed for me, Ser Jorah. Nor you either, Grey Worm.”

But Ser Jorah only smiled at her. “Your Grace, to die for you and your husband would be an honor.” Grey Worm nodded in agreement.

Dany glanced at Jon warily and he took her hand, squeezing it gently. When he glanced across the room he saw both Sansa and Lord Tyrion staring at their intertwined fingers, something in both of their eyes akin to sadness. “Very well.” Daenerys was saying to Jorah and Grey Worm. “But promise me you’ll both watch yourselves.” The two men gave their agreement.

“Your Graces,” Tyrion piped up. “I know my mind is much stronger than my body, but allow me to fight for you in the forthcoming battle as well.”

Varys scowled. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

“I led the Lannister forces to victory against Stannis Baratheon at the Battle of the Blackwater.”

“And you have quite a large scar on your face to show for it.”

“Enough,” Sansa interjected, and both Tyrion and Varys glanced at her, surprised by the conviction in her tone. “With all due respect Lord Varys, Lord Tyrion is very capable. He can decide for himself.”

Varys frowned, but reluctantly nodded his head. “If you say so, Lady Stark.”

“I agree with my sister.” Jon said. “Lord Tyrion has a head for strategy, it is part of the reason why Queen Daenerys and I have him as our Hand. Lord Tyrion, you may command the archers, if that pleases you.”

Tyrion nodded. “Thank you, Your Grace. If I may propose a suggestion?”

“You may.” Daenerys said.

“At the Battle of the Blackwater, I used wildfire to secure a victory. We may not have any of that, but the Night King and his army are vulnerable to another thing: fire itself. I suggest that all our arrows be lit aflame.”

Jon nodded his head. “It’s a good idea. Inform all of the men and women under your command of the plan. Theon, I take it you will fight among the archers?”

Greyjoy looked hesitant. “Your Grace, due to the injury to my hand I sustained fighting my uncle, I am not sure I can hold a bow and arrow.”

Tyrion scoffed. “Nonsense. If my brother can learn to hold a sword with one hand, you can learn to shoot a bow and arrow when you’ve lost a few fingers.”

“I need both hands fully functional to hold my bow – ”

But Tyrion would not hear it. “So learn to hold it differently! My brother could teach you. There’s not much else to do around here anyway…”

Theon frowned. “I do not need to learn anything from kingslayers – ”

Surprisingly, it was Dany who spoke up in Jaime’s defense. “My lord, enough.” She said sternly. “You are of no use to me sitting on the sidelines in this war. Ser Jaime will begin instructing you imminently. Or would you rather go back to the Iron Islands?”

Yara was glaring at Theon and Jon’s eyes met his. He gave his best nod of encouragement and Theon wavered. “I’ll train with Ser Jaime, Your Grace.”

Daenerys gave a smug smile. “Excellent. Next order of business, my husband and I will be on back Drogon and Rhaegal of course – ”

Jon faltered. “Are you sure that is the wisest decision?” He whispered to Daenerys. “Given your…delicate condition?”

His wife glared at him, a hand pressing over her midsection. “I’m pregnant, Jon, not an invalid. When I carried Rhaego, I rode on horseback across the Dothraki Sea for my full nine moons, and it was only when I was on my own two feet at a campsite that harm came to him. I am capable of looking after myself, and I would not do anything to put my child in danger. I need to do this to protect his or her future – to ensure that our child _has_ a future.” He saw a look of pain cross her face at the thought of it and Jon suddenly felt horrible, knowing he’d inadvertently caused it.

He nodded. “I’m sorry, I just don’t want anything bad to happen to you.” Even now the thought of his pregnant wife on dragonback in the middle of a battle for survival filled him with dread. He knew Daenerys was a strong and capable woman who knew what she was doing, but she was also his wife and the mother of his unborn child. He wanted to protect her, to protect both of them. He felt it was his duty as a husband and father, but he knew it was impossible to shield Daenerys and his sisters and Bran and himself all at once. He could not save everyone he loved and the thought of losing any of them was enough to drive Jon mad.

Daenerys smiled wearily at him and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Nothing bad will happen.” She said, though deep down they both knew no one could be sure of that.

Jon suspected he would be watching Daenerys’s back in the battle as much as his own.

“Yes, well,” Sansa added, clearing her throat. “Shall we discuss the knights of the Vale or – ”

Before she could finish, they were interrupted by the sounds of commotion outside. It sounded like it was coming from the courtyard. “Seven hells,” Tyrion sighed. “What could that be so early in the morning?” By the window, Sansa and Lord Varys arose and craned their necks to see.

The door to the library opened and Missandei rushed inside. “My queen, my king, you must come outside. There is a party at the gates.”

* * *

 **Melisandre** :

In the great hall they slept in pallets on the floor, the tables having been moved out and makeshift beds covering every inch of the wood floor, practically on top of one another. To her left there was a young woman, widowed in the fighting it seemed, for she slept with a toddler boy and an infant girl beside her but there was no sign of a father, and sometimes at night Melisandre could hear the young woman sniffling when the children were asleep. To her right there was a married couple, the man looking to be in his early fifties and the woman in her late forties, and when the servants came around to give them ale and bread the husband would try to give the wife his food, but she would always good-naturedly snap at him that he needed to keep his strength up and refuse to take it.

Melisandre thought of the last time she’d been a guest at Winterfell, how she’d had her own private chambers and dined at the table, but the less than ideal conditions did not matter to her. She’d withstood much worse. Her pallet was close to the hearth and a fire roared day and night, the Winterfell servants replenishing the supply of logs without fail. In the three days she’d been at Winterfell, she watched the fire almost constantly, allowing it to renew her resolve and warm her soul, hoping for a message from her god.

One night she glimpsed in the flames an image of a sword with a wolf’s head pommel, of a spider with a poisonous bite, and of a raven with three eyes flying over a frozen field lined with corpses, a pair of grey eyes staring back at her from the fire. 

That night she dreamt. She dreamt of that familiar sword, plunged into a woman’s exposed breast, and of a man with a face that was half-wolf and half-dragon fighting men made of ice with that sword in his hands, that sword now being wreathed in flames. A red sun burned in a grey sky and a flock of ravens took off from the branches of a tree with red leaves, all of them cawing and crying out their song.

She awoke with a violent start and there was a fiery pain burning in her chest. Melisandre pushed herself off the pallet and her bones creaked with the simple action. Covering herself with a robe, she quietly slipped from the great hall and towards the courtyard, where a commotion was emanating. The lords and ladies had gathered outside on the frosty morning and Melisandre pushed herself through the throng – some shot her annoyed looks, but no one would dare to tell off an old woman.

In the center of the courtyard stood soldiers wearing armor painted in flames and leading them was a woman in a red gown, wearing an Asshai’i ruby necklace identical to Melisandre’s own. The crowds parted and Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen walked forward, their councilors closed behind. Ser Davos was among them. Melisandre also spotted Sansa and Arya Stark making their way towards the front, and the Baratheon boy walking out of his forge. She smiled at the memory of the night they had spent together – he’d been quite fun. It made her almost glad her plan to sacrifice him had failed.

“Presenting Kinvara,” One of the Fiery Hand proclaimed. “High Priestess of the Red Temple of Volantis, the Flame of Truth, the Light of Wisdom, and First Servant of the Lord of Light.”

Kinvara curtsied. “Your Graces.”

“Lady Kinvara,” Daenerys Targaryen replied coolly. “We were…not expecting you.”

“We have come very far to serve you and your husband, my queen.” Kinvara replied. “The Lord of Light has sent us to you, to aid you in your battle against the darkness. It is His divine plan that has brought us to this moment.”

Jon Snow’s grey eyes scanned Kinvara and the soldiers warily. “Is…” He began to say. “Lady Melisandre is not with you?”

Kinvara smiled. “She is already here, Your Grace.”

A murmur went through the crowd and Melisandre knew she had no choice but to reveal herself. She reached into the folds of her plain beggar’s tunic and retrieved her ruby, placing it on her throat just as she stepped forward. There were looks of shock and awe as the magic took hold, her old form fading away into her youthful glamour. She bowed her head towards the bewildered looking king and queen. “Your Graces.”

Jon squared his jaw. “How did you get in here?”

Now Sansa Stark stepped forward, her face ashen. “It’s my fault, Jon. She…I thought she was an old woman, so I let her in with the other smallfolk. I’m sorry, if I’d only known…”

“It’s not your fault.” Arya Stark assured her sister immediately. Her grey eyes fixated on Melisandre and she scowled. 

Melisandre smiled coyly at her. “I told you we would meet again, dear girl. I’ve come to help your brother, for he is the Lord’s chosen one: Azor Ahai reborn.”

“Your Grace,” Ser Davos said – though he was speaking to Jon, his eyes were on Melisandre, and he was _angry_. “She killed Princess Shireen. She tried to kill Gendry. We agreed that if this woman ever returned to the North, she would be hanged as a murderer. Allow me to execute your justice.”

“Who has time for hanging?” Arya Stark chimed in, drawing her dagger. “I could kill her here and now.”

“Stop,” Daenerys Targaryen commanded forcefully. “Both of you. Lady Melisandre and Lady Kinvara have brought a thousand soldiers to our cause.” She looked at Jon. “Lady Melisandre is the one who told me to summon you to Dragonstone. She brought us together. We should hear what she has to say before we make our judgments.” After a moment’s hesitation, Jon nodded, and both Ser Davos and Lady Arya looked visibly displeased with that answer. Melisandre glanced back towards the forge and saw that Gendry had his jaw set, his arms crossed over his chest – but his eyes were full of fear. She smirked at him but the boy only recoiled and disappeared back into his forge. 

“Kill us if you wish,” Melisandre told the king and queen now. “But it is in your best interest to keep us alive. R’hllor has sent us to here to join with you, to drive away the Great Other and his darkness. You are Azor Ahai reborn, Jon Snow: I have seen it in the fires. I have come here to serve you, to guide you, even to die for you. We all must make our sacrifices…”

Jon Snow’s facial expression was hard and unreadable. “That may be so,” He said. “But Ser Davos is right. You killed an innocent child, and I swore to you that I would execute you if you ever returned to my lands. You did not keep up your half of the deal, and I am not one to break my promises.”

“You can’t kill her.”

A new voice made itself heard in the conversation and the crowds parted again, allowing a boy in a wheelchair to roll himself forward. Melisandre was rarely cold, but she felt a shudder run through her body. She had seen this boy before in her flames: he was the boy with the wolf’s face who she had seen with the man with a thousand eyes, servants of the Great Other…

“You can’t kill her,” The boy repeated. “Because we need her. If we want to defeat the Night King, we need her alive.”

Jon looked unsure. “Are you certain, Bran?”

The boy nodded. “I’m certain.”

Still, Ser Davos was not ready to give up. “Your Grace, she is a _murderer_ – ”

“Don’t worry, Ser Davos.” The boy said, his voice eerily calm. “She will die for her crimes, but not today.”

* * *

 **Davos** : 

Shireen deserved better than this.

That was all Davos could think that night as he sat in his chambers, reclined in a chair by the fire. Davos had never fathered a daughter, but he loved Shireen as if she were his own flesh and blood. She had been a smart girl, a kind girl, who would’ve grown up to be a wise and just queen. But now Shireen would never grow up – never marry, never have children, never become queen of anything. No, her life had been cruelly cut short, and that was all because of Melisandre. Tears pricked his eyes at the thought of Shireen’s sweet smiling face, and the look of horror that must have crossed it when she realized her fate.

He hadn’t been there to protect her.

If he had, maybe he could’ve stopped it…

“Ser Davos.” He jumped in his chair at the sound of her voice and turned to see the Red Woman standing languidly in his doorway. “Your door was unlocked.”

Davos’s sadness transformed into anger at the sight of her standing there so casually. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to help the king, just like you.”

“Not here as in this castle,” Davos said snappily, turning back towards the fire. He could not bear to see her face, that face that Shireen beheld as she died slowly and painfully. “I meant here as in this room.”

He would not look at her but he heard the sound of Melisandre’s feet gliding across the floor as she moved to stand before the hearth. She stared into the depths of the fire. “I know you dislike me, Onion Knight – ”

Davos scoffed. “The word ‘dislike’ only begins to cover it.”

“ – but I am not your enemy.”

“Bullshit.” Again Davos felt like he might cry and he could not tell if the tears were from anger or grief. “You killed that little girl.”

For a long moment, Melisandre said nothing. “I did.” Her voice sounded almost remorseful. _Good,_ Davos thought bitterly. _I hope she lives with that pain of regret until the moment she leaves this world._ He hoped that she was tormented by what she'd done for the rest of her life. “Luckily, you won’t have to put up with me for much longer. I’ll be dead soon.”

Tentatively, Davos looked up and found the Red Woman’s eyes filled with a serene resignation. She had just informed him of her own imminent death, and she did not look frightened. “…You’re not scared?”

Melisandre shook her head almost imperceptibly. “I have been ready to die for many years, Onion Knight. More than you know.” Her hands were moving and she was turning something in them, over and over, but Davos could not see what it was. “I knew you were meant to serve the true king in the Great War, Ser Davos. I was just wrong about who that king would be.”

Davos looked down at the floor. “Did you ever love him?” He asked. “Stannis?”

“I would’ve done anything for him. Just as I would do anything for Jon Snow now.”

For several moments there was silence, Davos sitting in his chair, Melisandre walking languorously about the room. Whatever it was she was holding, she placed down on Davos’s bedside table – he could not see what it was. “Jon Snow is Azor Ahai come again. He was sent by R’hllor to save us from the Night King – I’ve seen it in the fire.”

“Why should I believe you now?” Davos asked. “You were wrong the first time.”

Melisandre did not seem offended by his jab. “Can you honestly look at me and tell me you don’t think Jon Snow is the one true king?”

Davos said nothing.

“That’s what I thought. We both serve the same king, Ser Davos, and we both have his best interests at heart. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but for his sake, I hope you can put aside your hatred for a few more days. After this war, you will never have to see me again. I’ll be dead by then, and you’ll have justice for the princess you loved so much.” She turned to go, but then stopped abruptly on her way to the door. “Ser Davos? I’ve seen something troubling in the flames: the Spider is weaving his web again. We will have to do something about him before he interferes with the Lord’s plan. Goodnight.”

Davos sat up a little straighter, but before he could ask the Red Woman what she meant, she had already fled from the room, the lingering scent of her perfume the only proof she’d ever been there at all.

Well, that and whatever it was she had left on the table. Davos got up and crossed the room, curious to see what she had left behind.

On the table was a burnt wooden stag.

Immediately the tears rushed to his eyes unbidden and he held Shireen’s stag against his chest, as close as he possibly could. He silently promised himself he would never let go of it again. _Shireen, dear girl, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. Oh you poor child, how could they have done this to you…_

But suddenly, Melisandre’s parting words resonated with him again: _The Spider is weaving his web again_.

Davos realized he knew exactly what she meant.

But it couldn’t be true, could it? It had to be a mistake, after all Melisandre’s prophecies had been wrong before…

Still holding onto Shireen’s stag, he exited his room and walked down the hall to another man’s chambers, luckily finding them empty. Not sure exactly what he was looking for, he began to scan every inch of the room, from the papers on the desk to the robes hanging up in the wardrobe, even to the mattress on the bed. It was in the bedside drawer that he ultimately found it.

A half-empty vial of red-speckled mushrooms.  

* * *

 **Arya** :

After midnight, when all the castle was asleep, she put on her cloak and slipped outside, making her nightly walk towards the forge. She paused in the open doorway and watched silently for a moment as Gendry worked. He clearly didn’t hear her enter, lost in his work, his back towards her as he continued molding dragonglass into sharp arrowheads and skinny blades. Sweat ran in rivulets down his back, dripping down his muscles, his exposed skin dusted with soot. All over again Arya found herself impressed by how strong he was and she felt a smile come to her lips.

“You didn’t forget about our nightly date, did you?”

Gendry flinched, startled, and then turned around to look at her. The smile he gave her was tight and forced, not genuine like usual. “You need to stop creeping up on me, m’lady.”

“Maybe you just need to pay more attention.” Arya quipped back, kicking a stone across the forge floor. Gendry went back to shaping dragonglass in the fire and Arya gave herself a boost so she could sit on the anvil.

Gendry furrowed his brow when he turned and saw her sitting there. “I need that, you know.”

“Take a break. Come talk to me.”

Begrudgingly, Gendry put down his tools and disappeared into the back room, reappearing a moment later with a shirt now on. Arya was unable to deny the disappointment she felt in that instant. _Don't think about him like that! This is Gendry. Your_ friend _Gendry!_ She gulped, trying to think of something to get her mind off of Gendry’s muscles, to no avail…

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.” She said. “With the Red Woman here, and everything.”

“I’m fine.” Gendry replied a little too quickly.

But Arya could tell he wasn’t fine. He couldn’t meet her eyes as they spoke and he kept his arms crossed over his chest, like a barrier between them. Every word out of his mouth sounded annoyed, and below that annoyance she could hear his voice tremble, as if from fear.

“ _Gendry_.” She said gently. When he still didn’t look at her she grabbed him and pulled him closer towards her, forcing his arms to his sides. Gendry didn’t even bother to fight her this time. “What did she do to you?”

“It was nothing, I…” He shook his head. “It was nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

“Arya – ”

“What happened to us being able to tell each other anything?”

Gendry was silent for a long moment, staring at the floor. “She made it seem like she cared.” He finally said, voice low, not looking at Arya as he talked. “She was the one who told me that Robert was my father. She had me bathed, and fed, and clothed…She made me feel important…” He trailed off, swallowing the lump rising in his throat. “She told me about her life, how she grew up poor. It made me feel like she understood what I’d been through. She gave me wine. And then…she kissed me. Took off my clothes. I wasn’t sure, I’d never…” His voice broke. “But she was this beautiful woman and she made me feel like I mattered. Like I was more than a nobody. Only then she tied me to the bed, and she pulled out the leeches…”

Arya saw that he was getting upset now and she could feel her anger coursing through her veins just hearing the story. _I want to kill her._ She thought. _She deserves to die for hurting him like this._ She cut Gendry off by hugging him. “You don’t have to say anymore. She’ll die for what she did to you.”

Gendry pulled back. “Arya, don't - ”

“I mean it.” _Melisandre took advantage of him and tried to kill him. She deserves to die for that._ “I hate that she hurt you.” She paused, biting her lip. “Melisandre tried to kill you for your king’s blood. And Shireen, the innocent child she was burned, was your cousin. I know Ser Davos and I have talked about killing her, but her life isn’t ours to take. It’s yours.”

“Maybe so.” Gendry sighed. “But I don’t want to kill her. I mean, when I saw her in the courtyard, for the first time since that night…I _wanted_ to. But I won’t.”

Arya hesitated. “I would kill for you.” She whispered. “You know that right?”

Gendry smiled wearily. “I know. But I don’t want you to.”

“Because that’s what you and I do. We protect each other. Ever since we were children, we’ve protected each other.”

“We did. We _do._ ”

It was only then that Arya realized at some point she had grabbed his hand again, like she did two days ago at Karhold. They were so close to each other, Arya sitting on the anvil, Gendry standing before her so close that her knees were brushing against him. “It’s always been us against the world,” She mused. “Hasn’t it?”

Gendry nodded and wet his lips. “Yeah. It has.”

Their eyes met and they stared at each other, Gendry breathing heavily, Arya feeling like she wasn’t breathing at all. _He’s my best friend._ She realized with a crushing clarity. _I would die before I let someone hurt him like that again._ She never wanted to see Gendry in pain, not now, not ever. But this protectiveness she felt towards him, this need to shield him from harm, it was different than the defensiveness she felt over her siblings. Gendry was the person she wanted to talk to at the end of the day, and recently she’d found that she couldn’t sleep if she didn’t come to the forge first. She loved to tease him more than anyone else, she always felt a surge of pride when she elicited a smile out of him, and more than once she had found herself marveling at how handsome he was…

“What are you thinking?” Gendry asked her.

Arya tightened her hold on his hand, interweaving their fingers. “That you’re stupid.”

He smiled at her and she felt that little surge of pride again. “Oh yeah?” Gendry laughed. “What did I do this time?”

She hesitated. “I’ve been waiting for you to kiss me for days and you haven’t noticed.”

Gendry’s blue eyes went wide. “Arya…”

So she leaned forward and kissed him herself. She’d always been the type of girl who went after what she wanted.

Their lips met gently at first and then more passionately. It was no surprise that Arya kissed with the same bold determination she did everything else, and Gendry’s lips on hers were as strong as she had imagined. Her hands curled against his chest, pulling him closer.

Gendry pulled back slightly and pressed his forehead against her own. “Seven hells,” He started to say. “This is… _seven hells_.”

Arya simpered. “Seven hells indeed.” She wrapped her legs around his waist and their lips met again, Gendry’s hands touching her back, pulling her hair down. There was a fire burning in her belly only it was not the hotness of anger, but a low simmering that was gradually rising. Arya had never felt this way before, not about anything or anyone, and she couldn’t remember the last time she had wanted something as desperately as she wanted Gendry in that instant.

She nipped playfully at his lip, and Gendry’s hands were in her hair as Arya began to realize that there was a chance things might go far tonight. She tried to remember what her septa had told her about the things men and women did together. Septa Mordane had been so vague and made it sound so clinical, just a thing a husband and wife did to make heirs, but duty wasn’t what this was. She didn’t talk about feelings like this. So instead Arya acted purely on instinct, allowing Gendry to kiss her along her jawline and her neck and her collarbone, while her fingers nimbly worked on pulling up his shirt, tracing his muscles. She pulled away from his embrace only for a moment to pull his shirt off, and instinctively she pinned his arms over his head…

Immediately Gendry yanked himself away and Arya was so caught off guard she started to fall off the anvil, managing to catch herself before she could fall to the dirt floor but scrapping the back of one of her legs. She cursed to herself when she saw that she’d made herself bleed, but when she looked up again she found Gendry facing the corner as he pulled his shirt back on.

Arya’s brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” He couldn’t look at her again and one of his hands scratched the back of his neck nervously. “I…I can’t…”

“You can’t what?”

“I can’t do this with you, Arya!”

A wave of cold washed over her. Now, all Arya felt was foolish. “Oh.” She said. It came out like a pathetic squeak. _Of course he doesn’t want me._ She thought to herself. _Why would he?_ “I see. I’ll leave now.”

She straightened her clothes and silently willed herself not to do anything stupid like cry. She wanted to pull her hair back up but she didn’t know what Gendry had done with her clip and she was too embarrassed to ask for it back. Instead she started to head for the door, hoping Gendry couldn’t see the tears pooling in the corners of her eyes.

“Arya – ” He started to call after her. “It’s not…it’s my fault I can’t – ”

“It’s fine.” Arya said, not looking back at him. She resented the way her voice faltered over the word ‘fine’. “I’ll see you around.” She burst out of the forge and was halfway across the courtyard when she finally lost it, the first tear running down her cheek. _You’re Arya Stark._ She told herself. _You don’t cry over a stupid boy._ Yet the tears kept coming all the same. She didn’t know if she’d ever felt so humiliated.

_I was so stupid, thinking that maybe we could be something. I’m not made for love. And how could someone like Gendry ever have feelings for a killer like me? Of course he was going to come to his senses sooner or later…_

She didn’t come to the forge the next night and she tossed and turned in bed for hours, not sleeping a wink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took forever. I spent nearly two weeks tweaking this chapter and rewriting bits and I still don't like it. Honestly I just didn't want to look at it anymore. 
> 
> Luckily Chapter 9 is already done and I like that one much better. You'll get that in about two weeks once I've survived my final exams.


	9. Death By Fire Is The Purest Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys finds out who tried to kill her; Tyrion and Sansa discuss what transpired between them the night of the wedding; Jaime has to tell Brienne a hard truth; Sansa tries to find common ground with her sister-in-law.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finals are finally done, I'm finally headed home, and I'm so excited to have five weeks off to read and write as I please! You probably noticed that the chapter count on this story has been upped from 13 to 14 - Chapter 12 isn't finished yet and is already way too long, so I'm dividing it in two and adding a few additional scenes. 
> 
> (Also I was talking to my mom about my writing and she's convinced it's bad luck to end a story at 13 chapters, so she demanded I either delete a chapter or add one. No way I could delete a chapter, they're already too long - I've written portions of the kinda-sorta-like-an-epilogue final chapter and it's already 25 pages in Microsoft Word. Yikes.)

**Daenerys** :

The first thing she saw when she walked into the courtyard was Drogon, rearing his head and beating his wings, despite one of the Unsullied’s futile attempts to calm him down. The dragon was angry, but surprisingly she didn’t feel the same – she knew she should be angry, but she did not feel the fiery spark of rage, only the cold sting of betrayal.

Around the courtyard lords, ladies and servants had gathered to watch. Gendry and the other smiths stood in the open doorway of the forge, while Ser Davos stood by Missandei and Grey Worm, staring at the floor. She noticed the Red Woman up on the rampart, an eerily calm expression on her face. A Dothraki and an Unsullied shoved Varys before her, the eunuch’s hands tied up crudely with rope. Daenerys glanced at Tyrion. “You are sure it was him?”

Her Hand nodded and pulled a small vial from the folds of his cloak. “Ser Davos found this in his room.” Daenerys took the vial in her hands and saw that it was half full of small white mushrooms, each speckled with red spots.

“The poison.”

Tyrion nodded. “He must’ve stolen them from my room. I don’t know how he knew about them…the little birds are everywhere, I suppose.”

Daenerys clenched her hand around the vial and looked up at Varys. “Do you deny these accusations, Lord Varys?”

He met her gaze with a perfectly controlled expression and a blank gaze. “I do not.”

Daenerys’s stomach churned and she felt as if she might be sick. Whether that was the morning sickness or the disgust she felt in that instant, she could not say. “So you openly admit to plotting against the queen?” Tyrion asked Varys.

“That’s correct.”

 _Why?_ Daenerys wanted to ask him. _Why would you do this to me?_ But before she could get a word out, she heard the sound of doors slamming open and a familiar voice. “Where is she?” The voice was louder and not as even-tempered as usual, but she recognized it immediately as Jon’s. Her husband burst into the courtyard and he looked relieved at the sight of her, but when he saw Varys, his grey eyes filled with fury. “ _You_.”

“Jon – ” She started to say. He didn’t listen, brushing past her towards Varys, and no one had time to react before Jon’s fist connected with Varys face. “Jon, stop it!” She grabbed her husband to pull him towards her, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face into the back of his shoulder. Her touch was enough to ease his anger and Jon turned towards her so they could embrace fully. Daenerys lifted his hand and saw that blood was now dripping from his knuckles. “You’ve hurt yourself.”

Jon cursed under his breath and kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry, I just…I can’t bear the thought of what would’ve happened had his plan succeeded.”

Daenerys smiled feebly and kissed his injured hand. “Luckily it did not.”

Varys’s nose was now bloody from where Jon had punched him. “You’ll die for this.” Tyrion said to Varys. “You know that plotting against the queen is a capital offense.”

Varys looked up at her, blood dripping down his chin. “The Mother of Dragons told me once she’d burn me alive if I betrayed her. I know she keeps her promises.”

“Why?” The word burst from her lips immediately. “Why betray me then? I told you, if you ever thought I was failing the people, tell me and I would’ve…” Her lower lip trembled and she swallowed so that she would not cry – she was much more emotional now that she was with child and it took everything in her not to burst into tears. She felt Jon’s arm tighten around her shoulders.

“I knew you would not see reason.” Varys said. “Once you burned the Tarlys, I began to fear there was no going back. King Aerys started off great too, you know – then the years made him more and more mad. I saw your father in you.”

Tears pricked her eyes but she clenched her jaw and forced them down. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d upset her. “I am not a mad queen.”

“So you say.” Varys said. “But you are your father’s daughter in many ways, Daenerys Targaryen. I’ve seen the look you get in your eyes. And how can you expect people to not judge you for his sins, when you’ve done the same to others?”

“I’ve never – ” Daenerys started to say, but Varys cut her off.

“The first time you met your now husband? The smith with his Baratheon father?” Daenerys glanced back at the forge and saw Gendry duck his head, looking uncomfortable as heads turned to stare at him. Varys laughed humorlessly. “No need to hide it – everyone who’s ever laid eyes on dead King Robert can tell who the boy’s father is. Wasn’t it always said that Robert had a bastard in every kingdom? Luckily Joffrey did away with most of them for you.”

Daenerys was horrified by the insinuation. “I _never_ planned to kill him, or Jon for that matter.” Even back when she first met Jon and Gendry and hadn’t trusted them, she’d only been suspicious, and she knew now she was wrong about them. “I never conspired to kill anyone. That was _you_. If you had concerns, why didn’t you come to me like I asked you to?”

The eunuch’s eyes were serious and sad. “I feared you would not listen.”

Daenerys swallowed the lump in her throat. She wanted to yell at him, to tell him he was wrong about her, but there was no point – doing so would not change his mind or take back his actions, it would only make her look like a petulant child. “And who would be your new cause once I was…done away with?”

Varys’ eyes flicked to the man by her side.

Immediately Jon’s eyes blazed again and Daenerys tightened her grip on his arm, so he could not do something rash like punch Varys again. “You have no honor.” Jon said. “You flit from one king or queen to another, backstabbing them as you please…”

“Say what you like about me,” Varys replied. “But I was on your side. Did I ever tell you the story about how I was cut? When the sorcerer took off my manhood when I was just a child and threw it into the flames, a voice whispered to me a single word: _Targaryen_. I spent my whole life trying to figure out what that voice was trying to tell me. That’s why when I heard about the Dragon Queen across the water, I thought perhaps she was the ruler I was meant to place upon the throne. But then, as time went on and I became more disillusioned, I found out the truth about you, the man they called Jon Snow. The Iron Throne should belong to you and is your birthright alone. I know you would make a fair and just king, if only you had the right people to surround you. I knew I needed to get you away from your aunt, and make sure no more children of incest were born in the Targaryen family – but I suppose I was a little too late.” Varys shook his head, and Daenerys felt a fierce protectiveness wash over her as the man spoke of her unborn child in such a crude manner. “I was going to make you the greatest king ever known. I was going to wed you to the most powerful heiress in the Seven Kingdoms, to unite the North and South and forge an everlasting peace. I was going to give you the world, Aegon.”

Though Jon made no moves to hit Varys, Daenerys knew he was angry from the look in his eyes. Even though her husband had the look of a wolf, for once Daenerys could see the dragon in him. “My name,” Jon said, his voice low but forceful. “Is not Aegon.”

The two men held each other’s gazes for a moment before Varys broke away, looking at Daenerys. “I’ve said all I have to say, Mother of Dragons. Burn me, behead me, do whatever you want with me. I’ll die knowing I did what I thought was best.”

A hush fell among the crowds and some Unsullied led Drogon forward, the dragon crying out as if in anticipation for what was to come, smoke puffing out of his nostrils. Daenerys felt Jon squeeze her arm. “I, Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of My Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, do hereby sentence you, Lord Varys, to death for the crimes of treason, murder, and conspiracy to commit murder. Do you have any final words?”

Varys smiled, only smiled. “ _Targaryen_. To think that all these years I’d interpreted that word wrong. I thought it was my destiny to place a Targaryen upon the Iron Throne, but in reality it was my destiny to be killed by a Targaryen. So go ahead, Daenerys Stormborn: end my suffering. I know you’ll enjoy the show.”

All around the courtyard, the crowds were watching with bated breath. Tyrion and Davos were looking at her, waiting.Missandei grabbed Grey Worm's hand and burrowed her face into his shoulder. Gendry had disappeared from the doorway, gone back to the heat of the forge. Daenerys lastly looked up at the rampart and saw Melisandre of Asshai already staring at her, a serene smile on her face and a look in her eyes as if she had seen all of this before.

Drogon whined and then let out a roar. Reluctantly, Daenerys let go of Jon’s hand to approach her dragon, running a hand down his nose. Drogon nuzzled against her touch. “Drogon,” She whispered to him. “ _Dracarys._ ”

Drogon opened his mouth and spewed a great burst of fire that heated up the cold winter morning. All around people watched in shock and awe as Varys caught fire, the air smelling like burnt flesh. Up on the rampart, the Red Woman was smiling. “Death by fire is the purest death.” She said to no one in particular.

But Daenerys did not watch. She turned away to squeeze Jon’s shoulder and wordlessly took his hand, the two of them walking silently back into Winterfell.

She was not a mad queen.  

* * *

 **Tyrion** :

The air smelled like death.

Tyrion did not think he would ever get used to the smell of burnt flesh. From his spot on the ramparts he watched as Winterfell servants cleaned up the yard, one of them sweeping away the ashes that had once been Varys the Spider with a broom. Once Tyrion had considered the man an ally, maybe even a friend. Now he just felt confused. _How could Varys have done something so foolish and stupid?_ Tyrion wondered. Most jarring of all was that the man had stolen from him in order to commit the deed – would Varys have framed him if he had to?

“Lord Tyrion.”

He looked up at the sound of his name being called and saw a stern looking Sansa Stark walking towards him. Tyrion glanced away quickly. The last time they were alone together had been two days ago, when she had kissed him in her bedroom. _You kissed her back, remember?_ A little voice in the back of his mind whispered. It was getting harder and harder for him to deny that he had feelings for Sansa. Despite that, however, he knew what had transpired between them the other night had been inappropriate, and he couldn’t help but feel that he had taken advantage of her. _She never would’ve kissed me if she hadn’t been intoxicated._  He thought. _She probably regrets it already._

“Lady Stark.” Tyrion greeted her, as coolly as possible.

Sansa stopped next to him and glanced out at the courtyard. “Why was Lord Varys put to death on my lands without my permission?”

“Technically your permission wasn’t needed,” Tyrion said. “Considering Varys’s acts of treason were committed against Her Grace, not you, and your brother and the queen’s orders trump yours.”

“I understand that, but I like to know what is going on in my own home. I am the Lady of Winterfell, I do not favor the queen making me look ignorant.”

"No one thinks you ignorant, Lady Stark."  _Everyone with eyes can see that you're one of the most intelligent and perceptive people around here._ He thought about adding, but he refrained. "You know he was planning on marrying you to Jon."

Sansa laughed under her breath. "As if that ever would've happened. I thought Varys was supposed to be smart."

"It would've made you Queen of Westeros."

"I don't care about that. I used to, but..." She trailed off. "My place is here now. This is my home, my people." 

It was a wise and mature thing to say, especially considering how desperately she'd wanted to get away from Winterfell as a child. _Time has matured her into quite a woman, and many would not have so bravely endured what she has..._  Tyrion studied her silently for a minute. "You and the queen should talk, I think."

“About Lord Varys?”

“Among other things.”

Sansa looked at him confusedly. “What more is there to say?”

Tyrion shrugged. “I know the two of you do not get along.”

Sansa frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. “I tolerate her well enough. I do not need to be best friends with her.”

“I think you could be,” Tyrion said. “Friends, I mean. There’s quite a lot you have in common.”

“Like what?”

“Well I like you both, for starters.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, but she could not help but smile. “Mayhaps you like too many people. What else?”

“You’re both keenly intelligent. People underestimate you, but you don’t let that stop you. Neither of you like hearing the word ‘no’ very much…” He paused. “Both of you have survived insurmountable odds, have walked through all the Seven Hells and emerged stronger than before. Daenerys has been through many of the same struggles as you. I think you’ll find a kindred spirit in her.”

Sansa blushed and looked down. “Maybe I’ll talk to her.”

“That’s all I ask.”

They stood in silence for several moments, staring out at the courtyard and watching as the servants finished cleaning. Tyrion watched as everyone went back inside, leaving him and Sansa completely alone, not a single eye on them. He shivered as a winter breeze blew by.

It was an action that did not go unnoticed by Sansa. “That reminds me,” She said. “I’ve been working on something for you.” Tyrion opened his mouth to ask what it was, but before he could even get a word out Sansa had picked up her skirts and walked back down the ramparts.

Now alone, Tyrion sighed to himself and rocked on the balls of his feet in an attempt to keep warm. Several moments passed before Sansa came back, long enough that he began to wonder if he should leave or go looking for her. When she returned she was now carrying a bundle of fabric in her arms, but what exactly it was Tyrion could not say. 

“My lord,” She said. “Allow me to apologize for…what transpired between us the night of my brother’s wedding. I know I overstepped my boundaries and I am, frankly, embarrassed by my actions.”

He thought of the feeling of her lips on his and her tongue in his mouth and Gods, Tyrion hated himself for desiring her. “You do not need to apologize, Lady Stark.” He said. “I’ve done plenty of things while I was drunk that I regretted in the morning.”

Sansa frowned. “Yes, well…” She handed him the bundle in her arms. “Regardless, I made you a gift to show you how sorry I am. I know you said you don’t like the cold. This will help with that, I think.”

Tyrion could see now that the bundle of fabric was actually a cloak, made of red velvet and trimmed with fur. There was leather lining on the inside to keep the warmth in, and on the straps of the cloak Sansa had stitched a Lannister lion using red thread. “It’s…” Tyrion Lannister was not a man to be at a loss for words, but in that moment he was deeply touched. She had really remembered his off-handed comment about the weather? How had she gotten this done in such a short time? “It’s beautiful. You made this?”

When he looked at Sansa again, she was beaming. “Yes. Do you like it?”

“My lady, I love it. Thank you.”

Her thoughtfulness was just another reason to fall for her more, but Tyrion silently reprimanded himself, reminded himself that there was no point in falling for Sansa Stark when it would only end in heartbreak for him, and so instead he forced a smile and asked her for help putting on his new cloak.

* * *

 **Jaime** :

He was surprised to find the note from Tyrion in his quarters that morning.

_Brother –_

_His Grace requests your presence at supper this evening, in honor of your bravery and valor at the Battle of Karhold. Be there at eight o’clock sharp, in His Grace’s private solar._

_Signed,_

_Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King and Queen_

Even though he was no longer a prisoner, Jaime was still wary of the invitation. He knew very well that sometimes when your former enemy invited you to sup, there were sinister intentions. But this was honorable Ned Stark’s son (well, _nephew_ technically), so while he probably wasn’t going to be murdered, he still choose a black tunic instead of his family’s red or gold. The less Lannister he looked, the better.

Jaime arrived at precisely eight to find that all the other dinner guests had arrived. Inside the king’s solar, they were clustered around a large round table, Jon Snow with a sister at each side – Arya Stark to his left with Bran Stark next to her, and then Sansa Stark to his right. Across the table Jaime’s brother was seated next to an empty chair, and Jaime tried to slip in quietly next to Tyrion, but Lady Sansa saw him. “Ah, Ser Jaime,” She said. “Glad you could join us. Come, have a seat next to me.”

Jaime did not know how glad she actually was, but he obeyed and slipped into the seat next to Lady Sansa. To his relief, Brienne was on his other side and she gave him a small smile. “Nice to see you in a less dire setting.” She quipped.

“Well, we never know.” Jaime whispered back. “An ice dragon could fly by and cave the roof in at any moment.”

Also seated around the table were the Greyjoys, Ser Davos Seaworth, the Tarly boy and his…his lover? His wife? Jaime didn’t know what the story was there, but the Wildling woman kept looking at Tarly and whispering to him about what all these different forks were for. There was only one seat unoccupied, the one next to Tyrion, and they waited for several moments for the queen to arrive, making idle chitchat as a servant came round to fill everyone’s wine glasses. At their side of the table, Sansa was asking Arya why she hadn’t invited her _friend_ Gendry (Lady Stark spoke the word ‘friend’ with particular emphasis) to sup with them, and Arya stopped glaring murderously at Jaime for a second to glare at her sister, telling Lady Sansa that she should stop talking if she liked not having a knife in her eye.

After the subsequent terse silence, the door opened but it was not the queen, only her handmaid/advisor/companion – Jaime wasn’t sure what exactly she was, nor did he know her name, for they’d never been introduced.

“Pardon the interruption Your Grace,” She said in her foreign accent. “But Her Grace has taken ill and will not be joining you for supper this evening.”

“Is she all right?”

“Quite all right, Your Grace. Just a bit of an upset stomach from morning sickness.”

At the mention of morning sickness, Jaime’s eyebrow shot up. _They didn’t seem to waste any time…_ But looking around the table, he seemed to be the only one who hadn’t already known of the queen’s pregnancy. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that he was the last to know.

The king nodded. “Very well.” Jon said. “Have you eaten, Missandei?”

The woman – Missandei, evidently – blanched. “Your Grace, I do not want to impose…”

 “You wouldn’t be imposing. We have an empty chair and a meal prepared for thirteen.”

Still, she looked unsure. “Are you sure, Your Grace? I was going to bring Her Grace some tea and sit with her for a while…”

Suddenly, Sansa glanced over at Tyrion and sat up straighter. “Actually, Missandei,” She told her. “I’d be more than happy to bring the queen some tea, after dinner. Sit down and eat with us, please.” Across the table, Tyrion looked pleased and Missandei finally gave in, thanking Lady Sansa for her kind offer and taking the empty seat.

The servants came around and filled everyone’s plates with food: capon with crispy skin, roasted potatoes and onions, and some pieces of brown bread. Everyone began to eat – poor tongueless Yara Greyjoy was mostly drinking wine and mashing potatoes with the back of her fork – and have their own conversations. Jon Snow inquired after his brother Bran’s recent reading and he answered tersely, Tyrion asked Missandei a question about her studies of High Valyrian, Ser Davos and Theon Greyjoy were discussing sailing, and Samwell Tarly was assuring his worried lover that she was in fact holding her knife correctly.

“Ser Jaime,” Lady Sansa said to him. “How has your stay at Winterfell been? My sister and I were just discussing…” She side-eyed Arya. “…your comfort.”

Jaime cleared his throat. “It’s been quite well, Lady Stark. I am…very thankful for your forgiveness and generosity, my ladies.”

“Forgiveness and generosity?” Arya Stark repeated, and then she laughed humorlessly. “That’s all Sansa. I’m afraid that I’ve never been the forgiving and generous sort, Ser Jaime.”

“Really?” Jaime said, before murmuring under his breath: “I never would’ve guessed…”

The younger Stark girl smiled at him, but it wasn’t a warm smile. It was sly, wolfish. “I’m afraid that’s always been one of my faults. I’m actually quite vengeful, in truth. I can hold onto a grudge for years and years, waiting for my right moment – you see Ser Jaime, it’s not only Lannisters who pay their debts.” She picked up her knife and made a great show of cutting up her capon into many tiny pieces. 

At this, Sansa choked on her wine and Brienne had to pat her forcefully on the back.

Jon did not look up from cutting a potato in half as he replied. “Arya,” He said nonchalantly. “Please don’t threaten anyone with murder at the dinner table. Or at least save it until dessert.”

Arya frowned and took a long drink of wine, but kept quiet after that.

There was a beat of awkward silence. “Your Grace,” Jaime offered up, in an effort to make conversation. “Have you and Her Grace decided to keep your royal court at Winterfell?”

Jon Snow thought about it for a moment as he chewed. “We haven’t discussed it outright, no, but I believe my wife would very much like to return to the South. King’s Landing was our family’s ancestral seat and I know it means a lot to her. I think she would like to march to King’s Landing as soon as the War for the Dawn is over, but if I had my way I would like her to give birth safely at Winterfell first.” There was a pause and it didn’t take a genius to know what they were all thinking: _that is, if we survive long enough to march south._

“You could always go south with the armies and have Daenerys follow later,” Sansa suggested. “For her safety and the baby’s.”

Jaime did not know Daenerys Targaryen well, but even he had to scoff at the idea. “As if the Mother of Dragons would ever agree to that.”

Arya’s eyes flashed angrily. “Don’t talk down to my sister like that!”

Sansa opened her mouth, but Brienne spoke before she could. “He’s right, you know. The queen would never agree to such an arrangement.” Brienne blushed immediately once she realized what she’d said and turned away, stuffing a forkful of capon into her mouth.

Sansa smiled thinly. “It was just a suggestion. I know Her Grace is very strong-willed, and Ser Jaime is probably correct.”

“And Daenerys is right about one thing,” Tyrion added. “We cannot leave Cersei to her own devices for the next seven or eight months or so. It would be wise to deal with her sooner rather than later.”

Theon Greyjoy placed his fork down. “I don’t even know why we are discussing this,” He said, looking at Jon. “With Euron dead, Cersei has no allies – everyone hates her: the nobles, the smallfolk…You have several armies, a hundred ships, and two dragons. Why don’t you just fly south and burn her in her keep?” Next to him, Yara nodded along in agreement.

The word burst out of Jaime’s mouth before he could stop himself. “No.”

Immediately all chatter ceased everyone at the table glanced at him with various expressions of confusion, disappointment or anger. “And why not?” Arya Stark said. “You claim you hold no love for your sister any longer, Ser Jaime.”

“I don’t,” Jaime responded immediately. “But…” He trailed off, thinking of his unborn child. It was foolish to hope, he knew, but he could not help himself.

Then, Bran Stark spoke up. “He doesn’t love Cersei anymore, that’s true.” He said, and all eyes around the table shifted away from Jaime and towards Bran. “But he does love the child that she is carrying.”

Dead silence. Jaime stared at young Bran Stark in confusion – and fascination. “How could you possibly know that?”

Jon dropped his fork and faced Bran directly, squaring his jaw. “You’ve seen this?”

Bran only nodded in response.

Now, the king turned towards Jaime. “The baby is yours?” His voice was eerily calm. 

Jaime gulped. The Stark sisters were staring at him in shock, the Greyjoys with anger, Ser Davos, Missandei, Samwell Tarly and his lover with wide-eyes, and Tyrion with sympathy. Brienne could not even look at him. “Yes.”

Theon Greyjoy cleared his throat. “Well, that’s another reason we should go to King’s Landing as soon as possible.” He glanced at Jaime. “No offense, Ser – I understand your predicament, but this is war. What will happen if Cersei gives birth to a male heir?”

“We don’t murder babies in wombs here, Theon.” Surprisingly, it was Arya Stark who said that, her voice stern. Was she actually on Jaime’s side for once?

“I agree,” Ser Davos piped up. “Children are not their fathers, Your Grace – or their mothers.”

Still, Theon was persistent. “How can we guarantee that this child won’t grow up to become another King Joffrey? We have to think this decision through. What kind of leaders are we if we let such an abomination exist?”

A strange look crossed Jon’s face. “Some might say the same about my child.”

Greyjoy frowned. “Jon, I didn’t mean it like that – ”

The king cut him off. “I know what you meant, I'm just saying there's much to consider.”

Tyrion took a long drink, then put down his wine. “Your Grace, Joffrey was an evil-tempered boy. Neither Jaime or I will argue that. But he also had two siblings, born under the same circumstances – Myrcella and Tommen were good and kind, _innocent_. Their losses were tragic.” As Tyrion spoke, Jaime felt a knot forming in his throat. Not only had he lost his children, but Tyrion had lost his niece and nephews. No one could say Tyrion hadn’t loved Myrcella and Tommen with all his heart. “Every single one of us has the capacity to become evil, but if this child was allowed to live and grow up away from Cersei’s influence, with his or her true father…I promise you, Your Grace, that child would be raised to respect your rule, I swear it.”

Now, Jon Snow looked at Jaime. “Do you have anything to add, Ser Jaime?”

He glanced at Brienne. She still would not look at him and had pushed her plate away from her, staring down at her lap. Jaime knew he had blindsided her. “Just that…” He began. “I understand who Cersei is, but the child is also mine too. And because of that I cannot help but…” He shook his head. “I know it’s probably a lost cause, but I hope as a fellow expectant father you can understand my position.”

After a moment’s pause, Jon Snow nodded. “A child is not responsible for the sins of its father – or mother, in this case. Cersei Lannister shall live until she can give birth to her child, and I am certain Daenerys will agree with my decision.” Around the table, everyone nodded in silent agreement, some more begrudgingly than others.

Abruptly, Bran Stark pushed his wheelchair away from the table. “I’m tired, I think I shall retire early. Sam, do you mind helping me to my room?” Tarly got to his feet and went to help him, his lover rising as well and thanking Jon for inviting them to sup.

As they left, Brienne stood as well. “Lady Stark, I beg your pardon, but might I be excused?”

Sansa looked at her with concern. “Are you certain? You barely touched your food – are you ill?”

“No, I’ve just…” She glanced quickly at Jaime. “…lost my appetite.”

Jaime knew he should stop her, but couldn’t find the right words _. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you._ He wanted to say, but what good would that do? He had no good excuse, and she had every right to feel hurt. He’d told her that he was done with Cersei, but in reality…there was this secret tethering them to one another. As much as he wanted to let Cersei go for good, how could he? Jaime had left a part of himself behind in King’s Landing and he could never break away from Cersei while she still carried it.

Sansa nodded. “Yes, you are excused. Rest well.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Brienne nodded stiffly at the other dinner guests. She did not meet Jaime’s eyes. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight” several others echoed weakly, and Brienne quickly fled the room. The others picked up their utensils and continued the meal on in silence, no sounds but the scraping of forks against plates. Tyrion beckoned for the servant to pour everyone more wine.  

But Jaime only pushed his plate away. He suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore.

* * *

 **Sansa** :

She adjusted her hold on the tea tray and hesitated as she stood outside the door to Jon and the queen’s chambers. Gently, she rapped on the door. “Your Grace?”

Sansa could hear the sound of shuffling from the inside of the room. “It’s open!”

She pushed the door open, carefully balancing the tray, and found Daenerys Targaryen sitting upright on the bed, discreetly wiping her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. _She’s been crying._ Sansa thought, and the realization made her feel bad, as if she’d somehow contributed to it. She pretended not to notice as she placed the tea tray down on the bedside table. “I came to see how you were doing.”

“I’m…quite all right.” Daenerys did not sound at all convincing. Her voice wobbled from the strain of crying. “You were kind to check up on me.”

Sansa bit her lip, not sure of what to say. It would be rude to ask why she had been crying so instead she picked up one of the cups and the kettle. “How do you take your tea?” She asked, pouring.

Daenerys Targaryen hesitated before answering, her eyes flitting to the kettle and then to the second cup which Sansa had brought for herself. Sansa knew immediately what she was doing. _She’s making sure that I’ll be having some myself, so she knows it’s safe._ “Splash of milk, no sugars.”

Sansa fixed the tea as she described and then handed it to Daenerys, who smiled feebly. Then she poured a second cup for herself and fixed it the same way. “Tell me,” She said. “Who is it that made you so wary of other people?”

Daenerys laughed bitterly into her tea cup. “How much time do you have?”

“All night, if you wish.”

The queen took a long sip before placing her cup back down in the saucer. “The first time I was almost poisoned was when I was married to Khal Drogo. I was pregnant then. The man disguised himself as a wine-seller, offered me a gift…I would’ve died if Ser Jorah hadn’t saved me.” Forlornly, she pressed a hand over her belly. “My son died, but that had nothing to do with the poison.”

Sansa swallowed and stared into the depths of her cup. “I’m sorry.” She had no idea that the queen had ever been pregnant before. “It is cruel to lose a child. Not that I’ve ever experienced it, but…”

“I appreciate your sympathies.” The queen said and her smile seemed genuine, though faint. “I’m sorry for what happened today with Lord Varys, Lady Stark, but I…” She shut her eyes and a single tear slipped down her cheek. “Poisoned wine. The exact same time as last time. But I…I can’t lose another child. Not again.”

Sansa opened her mouth, then closed it. As much as she wanted to tell Daenerys that she wouldn’t miscarry again, that wasn’t a promise she could make. “Well,” She said instead. “You won’t see me crying over Lord Varys, if that’s your worry.”

The Mother of Dragons shook her head. The tears were flowing freely and now she didn’t even bother to hide it. “Maybe he’s right about me. Maybe I _am_ a mad queen…”

“Don’t say that – ”

“Why? I know you don’t like me.” Sansa flinched at Daenerys’s words, as if she’d been slapped. “I’m guilty of all the crimes he’s accused me off. I burned Lord Tarly and his son alive to make an example of them. I ask people not to judge me off the sins of my father, but I hated the Baratheon boy when I first met him. I don’t think I ever would’ve harmed him, but we don’t know that, do we? Maybe I’m no better than Cersei Lannister…” She let out a broken sob. “I’m a horrible person. What kind of queen will I make? What kind of _mother_ will I make?”  

Instinctively, Sansa placed her cup down and grabbed one of the queen’s hands, startling her. “You are not a horrible person,” She said. “And you are nothing like Cersei. Trust me, I’d know.”

The queen sniffled. “How?”

“I spent years of my life with Cersei.” Sansa explained. “I was betrothed to her son, Joffrey…” She resisted the urge to shudder at the memory. “People like them are great at making you think they care, but underneath that exterior…I don’t think there’s a shred of goodness in them. You may have made mistakes, but you have a good heart – I see it in the way you look at my brother, the way you talk about your child. Cersei is nothing like that. Maybe you have bad instincts sometimes, but you resist them – she would act on them all without a second of hesitation. There’s only one person in this world Cersei Lannister loves, and that’s herself.”

The queen was silent for a second, taking another sip of tea with shaking hands. “This is good, thank you.”

Sansa smiled. “You’re welcome.”

Daenerys looked up at her. “How did you escape? Cersei, I mean.”

It was an innocent enough question, but that too brought up horrible memories. She had been so relieved to leave King’s Landing, but now she regretted her actions that day, how she had abandoned Tyrion so swiftly even if it meant he would die. If she could go back, she never would’ve trusted Littlefinger. “Lord Baelish took me away to the Vale. I trusted him, but he betrayed me. Killed my aunt, and then sold me in marriage like a broodmare to the worst man I have ever met. He’s gone now, but just thinking about him, it makes me feel cold. The things he did…”   

She didn’t want to say it, but it seemed Daenerys already knew what came next. “I was raped too.” She whispered in a small voice. “I understand if you don’t want to talk about it.”

Sansa nodded and sipped her tea, trying to quash the tears pricking the backs of her eyes. “It was a dark time, but it’s over. I’m smarter now, and braver, and stronger. I will never let someone do to me what he did again.”

“If I look back, I am lost.” The queen said, mostly to herself. “I know exactly what you mean.”

They sat in silence for several moments, both of them sipping their tea. In just a few minutes Sansa had learned more about her goodsister than she had since Jon brought Daenerys to Winterfell. _I thought she was so cruel and untrustworthy,_ Sansa thought to herself. _But she’s not so scary. She’s just a woman. A woman who is an awful lot like me._

When they had both finished, they placed the cups back on the tray and Sansa rose to her feet. “Your Grace,” She said. “I know that you and I have not always seen eye-to-eye…but I hope you know that I do respect you.”

The queen smiled. “I respect you too, Lady Stark. And please, call me Daenerys.”

“Daenerys, right. You must call me Sansa, then.”

“All right. Well then, goodnight Lady Sansa.”

Sansa smiled and picked up the tray. A part of her wished she had listened to Tyrion and done this days ago – it would’ve saved them a lot of time. _Maybe then we could’ve been friends, real friends, before the Night King comes. I suppose there’s still time._ “Goodnight, Queen Daenerys.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Brienne, Arya, Theon, Sam.


	10. Lightbringer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne yearns for what she can't have; Arya feels the sting of rejection; Theon adapts to his circumstances; Sam and Bran discuss prophecy.

**Brienne** :

She was surprised when Sansa asked her to teach her to fight.

The girl came to Brienne’s room after their disastrous dinner with the king. “During the battle, I’m to be watching Bran, and I want to be able to protect him if anything goes wrong.” Sansa explained to her. “Jon said that every man, woman, and child needs to learn to hold a weapon – am I to be an exception just because I’m Lady of Winterfell?”

So Brienne agreed to teach her. The next morning they went out to the godswood for privacy to begin their lessons. Brienne nearly did a double take when she saw Lady Stark leaning up against the heart tree, her hair pulled back out of her face, and her usual dress eschewed in favor of a pair of slim grey pants and knee high boots. Brienne had never seen her in _breeches_ before. She tossed a wooden sword Sansa’s way and the young woman barely caught it. “First lesson: catch the sword when I throw it to you. Coordination is important.”

Sansa nodded, turning the practice sword over and over in her hand. “…How am I supposed to hold it?”

She had a lot to learn, and Brienne had a very short amount of time to teach her.

By the second day, Sansa had learned how to grip her sword properly and perfected her posture, and Brienne let her practice with one of the skinny dragonglass rapiers Gendry had forged. The sword was long enough to keep distance between her and the opponent, but light enough that Sansa could hold it easily in one hand. “You are not stabbing and you are not slicing,” Brienne instructed her as they circled each other, Brienne having put aside Oathkeeper in favor of a smaller sword similar to the one Sansa was using. “This sword is made for thrusting. You need to put your weight behind it.”

For someone who had never fought before, Sansa proved graceful. She was light on her feet, precise with her movements, but force was not her strong suit. Brienne knew she needed a different tactic. “This isn’t working.” She said. “You need to get angry. This may be a pretend fight, but during the battle you may have to face an enemy for real. You love Bran, don’t you?”

Sansa nodded without hesitation. “Of course.”

“And you want to protect him?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m doing this.”

“Good.” Brienne said. “Think of that. If you have to, imagine that I’m someone else – the worst person you know, the greatest enemy you have in this world. Then, fight me again as if your life depends on it – as if your _brother’s_ life depends on it.”

A steely look came to Sansa’s blue eyes. “All right,” She said. “Ready.”

Whatever it was she was thinking of worked, because now Brienne could feel more force behind Sansa’s blows. Their swords clashed and Sansa nearly lost her footing on a jagged rock but stayed aloft, quickly dashing under Brienne’s arm to prevent herself from being boxed in. Brienne had an advantage due to her training and larger size, but Sansa was intelligent and quick-thinking. She thrust her blade downwards but Brienne deflected her blow, causing them both to stumble. Ultimately Brienne won again when she was able to pin Sansa against the heart tree, an arm across her throat, but it had been a close match – much closer than the previous ones. “Good,” Brienne said. “You’re learning. Let’s take a break, and then we’ll go again.”  

They walked out of the godswood and crossed through the courtyard, where Arya was in the midst of conducting lessons with the Northern girls. All around Brienne girls from the ages of ten to sixteen were engaged in various stages of combat training and she sidestepped two small redheads who were chasing each other around, wooden swords raised. “Do you think they’ll grow up differently?” Sansa asked. “In a world where they can be whatever they want?”

Brienne smiled faintly. “I hope so.” Brienne had been lucky, her father agreeing to let her wear men’s breeches and train with Evenfall Hall’s master-at-arms, but Lord Selwyn was not like most fathers. The thought of him made Brienne feel sad, and she missed him all over again. She turned back towards Sansa.

They crossed towards the Great Keep and when Brienne glanced up towards the bridge between the Great Keep and the armory, she spotted Jaime and Lord Tyrion standing up there, observing the courtyard below. Almost immediately, Jaime turned his head towards her and met her eyes, causing Brienne to flush. He raised his good hand in a perfunctory greeting and Brienne returned the action, before quickly turning away. When she looked back at Sansa, the younger woman was now smiling at her knowingly.

They went inside, Sansa leading her back towards the kitchen, and Sansa greeted each of the cooks by name. One of the scullery maids poured them some mulled wine and Sansa swiped a heel of bread, hoisting herself to sit on the counter. “So,” She said, handing Brienne a piece. “You and Ser Jaime are…?”

Brienne felt her face grow hot at the question. “Friends.”

“Friends,” Sansa repeated, but she was still smiling that same, smug smile. “I think he fancies you.”

“No,” Brienne blurted out immediately. “He doesn’t. Can we change the subject?”

“I’m just saying that the way he looks at you is very…” Sansa took a sip of her wine, trying to find the right word. “…tender.”

Brienne stared into her untouched cup, trying to focus on the cranberries and cloves floating in her wine instead of thinking about Jaime Lannister’s eyes. _You stupid girl,_ She silently chided herself. _Have you learned nothing from Renly? He is not yours, you idiot, so don’t you dare cry over him._ “He’s having a baby.”

Logically Brienne knew that she had no right to be upset about Cersei’s pregnancy. So what if Jaime hadn’t told her? He didn’t owe her anything. They weren’t in a relationship, and gods knew they never would be. She couldn’t blame him for not disclosing it to her, but despite that when she first heard that the queen was carrying Jaime’s child, the news had hit her harder than a punch in the gut.

Sansa was silent for a moment, tearing the crust off her bread. “Yes, he is.” She agreed. “But he’s still here, is he not? Cersei’s pregnant with his child, but yet he still disobeyed her. He knew what he was risking, what he was leaving behind, and he did it anyway.” She raised an eyebrow suggestively. “Seems like there’s something here that means more to him than Cersei.”

_It’s just his honor._ Brienne wanted to say. _It has nothing to do with me._ But she felt like her throat was too dry for her to speak and she took a long sip of her wine. Jaime was a good person, a loyal friend, but that didn’t mean he loved her. She was Brienne the Beauty, the Maid of Tarth – to men she was a novelty, not a viable option. Gorgeous Sansa would know nothing about that. “I think Lord Tyrion was looking at you.”

Now it was Sansa’s turn to blush. “I doubt it.”

“He was. I think he likes the look of you in those pants…”

“He was probably thinking about how strange I look, is all.” She paused, a queer sort of sadness flashing in her eyes. “We…enjoy each other’s company. But I’m still a child to him.” Brienne could tell that Sansa wanted to talk about Tyrion about as much as she wanted to talk about Jaime. 

From then on, they ate in silence.

* * *

**Arya** :

“You need to stand sideface.”

Little Gwyn Mollen, a fair-haired girl of twelve, looked at Arya with slow blinking grey eyes, a wooden practice sword clenched in both hands. “Sideface?”

Arya stepped forward and unsheathed Needle to show her. “It makes a smaller target, you see? Though I know you’re already small…” Gwyn giggled, as did her sparring partner, a slim eleven-year-old named Marna who was one of the Flints – whether she was from the mountains, Flint’s Finger, or Widow’s Watch, Arya wasn’t sure.

“You’re small too, Lady Arya.” Marna said. Even though she was seven years Arya’s younger, they were the same height.

Arya nodded. “Sometimes being small is an advantage, though. You’re swift as a deer, quiet as a shadow, quick as a snake…”

Gwyn’s eyes lit up. “And fierce like a wolf!”

Arya grinned. “Yes, and fierce like a wolf.” She resheathed Needle and took Gwyn by the hand to adjust her grip. “There, good. Now try again.”

The two girls resumed – both of them now standing sideface, she noticed – and Arya circled the practice yard, checking on each of the girls’ technique. Lyanna Mormont was fighting Wylla Manderly – they were the two most advanced of her students and had received their own swords from the dragonglass Gendry forged. Lyanna was currently circling Wylla, their swords hitting each other in a rhythmic clash. Fifteen-year-olds Berena Locke and Alysane Marsh had both proven to be excellent archers and were engaged in a competition to see who could hit the most bullseyes. Lysa Woolfield, who was only nine, was the youngest of all the girls but she demonstrated a bravery unusual for her age, and Arya grinned as she watched her win a match over thirteen-year-old Jeyne Norrey.

She snapped out of her musings when Gendry suddenly appeared at her side, covered in soot from the forge and carrying a box full of skinny dragonglass swords. “I, umm, made some more of these.” He said uncomfortably. “Smaller grip, so they can fit in a girl’s hand. I can distribute them, if you want.”

Arya nodded stiffly. “Sure, I’ll help.”

They walked around the yard in mostly silence, Gendry giving the swords to the girls who were ready for them, Arya instructing them on how to hold the swords properly. Every once in a while she would glance at Gendry out of the corner of her eye, and more than once she found him already staring. “Listen, Arya,” He finally said. “About the forge…”

Arya cut him off. “It’s nothing.”

“Seriously, I think I owe you an explanation – ”

“Gendry, it’s fine. It was…it was a mistake, okay? Let’s not talk about it again. I just want to go back to the ways things were between us.”

Gendry nodded and stared down at the ground. “Right.”

It wasn’t him that she was angry at, not really. She blamed herself for being stupid enough to think he may have actually had feelings for her. _Why did I have to go and embarrass myself?_ She wondered. _I had just gotten him back and I had to ruin it by kissing him._ She wanted to forget that it had ever happened, but at the same time, the memory of his lips on hers…it hadn’t felt like a mistake. Not to Arya, at least.

Finally they reached where Podrick was sparring with Lady Alys Karstark, who had seemingly recovered from her ordeal at Karhold and demonstrated a skill with a blade after only a few days of lessons. Podrick kept her on her toes though, avoiding her blows even if he still looked unsure of himself. The Hound sat on a crate nearby eating an apple – he had said training little girls was stupid and a waste of his time, but Arya noticed he still came out to the yard every afternoon and would begrudgingly help the girls with their technique. “I have to say Podrick,” Arya remarked, just as Gendry placed down the now mostly empty box with a huff. “You’re much improved.”

Podrick smiled at her, but did not lose his rhythm. “All thanks to you, my lady. You’re the best teacher.”

At Pod’s words, Arya could see Gendry shift uncomfortably out of the corner of her eye. “I don’t know about that.” She said.“Lady Brienne did most of the work.”

“It’s true!” Podrick insisted. “You’re smart, supportive, diligent…”  

“Aye.” Gendry said grumpily. “She’s been very patient – helping you and the little girls.” Podrick was momentarily distracted by his comment and he stumbled, allowing Alys to tap him on the shoulder and win the fight. “Oh, too bad.” Gendry said, though it was clear he didn’t really mean it.

What in the seven hells was his problem? One look at Gendry was all Arya needed to tell that he was annoyed, and that was enough to make her annoyed too. Podrick was just being nice to her. “Gendry,” Arya snapped. “Can I talk to you for a second? Alone?” Before he could answer, she grabbed him roughly by his shirt and dragged him off in the direction of the forge. She slammed him against the wall a little harder than she normally would’ve, blinded by her anger.

“Hey!” Gendry said. “What did you do that for?”

“I don’t know, why are you being a complete and total arse?”

“How was I an arse to you?”

“Not to me, to Podrick!”

At this, she could see Gendry’s complete demeanor change, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “He was being inappropriate towards you.”

Arya couldn’t help but laugh. “Inappropriate? He gave me a compliment!”

“Because he wants to get into your breeches!”

“Oh right, because gods forbid someone say something nice to me without having an ulterior motive…”

Gendry looked away from her, scowling. “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just obvious that he wants you. He’s always trying to make you laugh…”

“Oh, how dare he!”

“…and complimenting you…”

“Such nerve!”

“…and he danced with you…”

Arya’s brow furrowed. She didn't even expect him to remember that, yet alone be mad about it. “The night of Jon and Daenerys’s wedding? That was days ago. Why do you care?”

Gendry stared down at his boots. “No reason.”

She had to laugh at that. “Clearly there is a reason! Why have you been acting so weird?”

Still, he said nothing.

Arya scoffed and rolled her eyes. She’d never thought about sleeping with Podrick or even kissing him, not once, but nevertheless who she was or wasn’t with was not Gendry’s business. _It could’ve been._ She thought resentfully. _If he hadn’t pushed me away…_ But the fact of the matter was he had rejected her, and that meant she was free to go for whoever she liked. Sure, she didn't like Podrick that way, but it was the principle of the thing. “I can flirt with or kiss or…or even _fuck_ whoever I want! You’re not my father, you’re not my brother, you’re not my husband. At least Podrick doesn’t look at me as if I’m a child!”  

Gendry stared at her for a long moment. “I don’t look at you like you’re a child.” He said, in a quieter voice than before.

“Don’t you?” Arya could feel her cheeks growing hot with anger and she focused all her attention on staring at the wall, not wanting to look at his face. “I don’t need you belittling me, or telling me what to do. I…” She trailed off. “I gave you the opportunity to be my family, and you said no. You don't get a say in what I do with my life. Not anymore. So either shut up about it or leave, because I don't need a stupid bullhead boy telling me what to do with my life!”

It was a low blow. When she looked at Gendry again he had turned away, unable to meet her eyes. “Sorry.” He mumbled, barely audible.

Arya felt bad for yelling at him, but she was too stubborn to give up now. In that moment, she had just wanted to hurt him as much as he hurt her, as petty as it sounded. She crossed her arms and huffed. “You know, if it bothered you so much, you could’ve asked me.” She said. “You know, to dance. Maybe I would’ve even said yes.” _No, not maybe._ Arya thought to herself. _I would have._ But she wasn’t going to tell Gendry that. “I’ll see you around.” She said brusquely, stomping back over to where Podrick and Alys were sparring before Gendry could reply.

Still angry, Arya plopped down next to the Hound, who stared at her as he finished his apple. “You two having a lovers’ quarrel?”

Arya glared at him. “We’re not lovers.” She said a little too emphatically.

The Hound rolled his eyes and stood up, throwing the core of his apple on the ground by her feet. “Seven fucking hells girl, you must be blind _and_ stupid if you think that poor bastard doesn’t love you.” Arya opened her mouth to retort but before she could the Hound walked off to show Jeyne Norrey how to deflect a blow, leaving Arya alone to stew in her indignation…

* * *

**Theon** :

He shut a single eye and gripped the bow as tightly as he could with only a thumb and a pinky. The bow wobbled in his hand, threatening to tip over, and Theon readjusted his grip, pulling the string.

The arrow launched and whizzed through the evening air, landing in the second to last ring on the target, not even close to the bullseye.

“Well,” Jaime Lannister said, his arms crossed over his chest and his green eyes fixating on the accumulating pile of discarded arrows scattered on the ground. “That one hit the target, at least.” From where she was sitting, Yara actually smiled and Theon thought she would’ve laughed, had she been able.

He threw the bow onto the ground in frustration, not knowing how much longer he could withstand their jabs. Yara had done nothing but sit by and stifle her smiles at his repeated failures, and Theon knew that Ser Jaime bore no love or compassion towards him, having only agreed to do this because Lord Tyrion had asked him to. “This is pointless.” He proclaimed. “We’ve been at this for hours and I’m not getting any better. So if you’re not going to help me, Kingslayer, then go run off and tell the king and queen that I’m nothing but a failure.”

Ser Jaime’s green eyes flashed. “Kingslayer, hmm?” He repeated dryly. “How original…” He pushed off the wall and Theon thought that he was going to walk away and do just that, but Ser Jaime only walked forward to lessen the distance between them. “Why do you say this is pointless?”

Was that some sort of trick question? Was the other man just going to revel in Theon’s acknowledgment of his own misgivings? “It’s been three hours and I haven’t made one bullseye.” Theon said. “I only have three fingers on my one hand, and I can’t hold the bow properly with my other one. Every time I try, the bow moves and my aim is off. Back before I was maimed, I could shoot a dozen arrows a minute and they’d all hit the bullseye. I could shoot messenger ravens out of mid-air. Seven hells, I saved Bran’s life once with my ability to shoot a bow! Now look at me. I’m a _joke_.”

Jaime Lannister scoffed. “Look at her.” He gestured at Yara. “Euron cut her tongue out and you don’t see her moping around about it!” Yara nodded along in agreement and Theon resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Maybe I’m tired of losing things.”

“Aren’t we all?” Jaime Lannister replied, without missing a beat. “Every one of us here has lost things, boy, things that were near and dear to us. But we don’t have the luxury of laying down and dying so easily.” When he saw that Theon still wasn’t convinced, he cursed to himself and looked down, rolling up the sleeve that covered his right arm.

Theon frowned. “What are you doing?”

The other man ignored him, his golden hand now in full view. Without a word, Ser Jaime unscrewed it and suddenly the hand was off, and now Theon had an unfiltered view at the stump underneath. It had healed over the years, but the skin was still puckered and discolored, a mess of scar tissue left behind from where Jaime Lannister’s sword hand had been severed from his body. “My whole life I was defined by that hand,” He said, and Theon couldn’t take his eyes away from the stump. Since he’d lost his hand, Theon had never seen Jaime Lannister without his golden substitute. “When they took it from me, you know what I thought? That my life was over. That death would’ve been more merciful than this. But then someone whose opinion I trust told me that I had to live, and their words gave me the strength to go on. Yes, those bastards had taken my hand, but my life still remained to me, and I was not going to let them take that from me too. Do you understand?”

Slowly, Theon nodded. A memory flashed back to him of standing on top of Winterfell’s walls, Sansa’s hand clenched tightly in his, as he stared down at the snow bank below and braced himself for the jump. He thought of that night on _The Silence_ , of his throbbing and profusely bleeding hand, how his arrow had stuck itself in Euron’s eye socket, how he’d stood over the man as he coughed and sputtered and died. “I understand.” He said, but then he paused, adding: “Will I ever be as good as I was?”

Ser Jaime smiled at him. “No, you won’t.” He said definitely, and Theon respected that the man did not deign to lie to him. He nodded at the bow on the ground. “Pick it up and try again.”

Yara was watching him expectantly with wide, dark eyes. Theon took the bow in his hand and drew another arrow from his quiver, taking his time to assume the proper position. Jaime Lannister had screwed his golden hand back on by now and resumed his former stance. “Now,” He said. “Remember what I told you. Don’t worry so much about aiming for the bullseye – your body knows where it wants the arrow to go.”

_Deep breath._ His arms were shaking and Theon did not move to fire the arrow, giving his body the time it needed to relax. His arm went straight and still, and he closed his eyes, trying to forget that he was even holding the bow in the first place. He used to always think of the bow and arrow as a part of his self, a natural extension to his arm, and he breathed in and out his nose and mouth. With the bow in his grip, it was suddenly like he had all his fingers again. _A natural extension of the arm…my body knows where it wants the arrow to go…_

This time, he did not try to aim, focusing all his attention on where his mind wanted the arrow to land. Theon opened his eyes and released the arrow just as he breathed out.

He did not look at Yara or Ser Jaime, and he heard nothing but the sound of his own heart beating rapidly in his ears as the arrow whizzed through the air and landed on the target – in the ring just outside of the bullseye.

For a moment there was silence, and then Theon was startled by the sound of clapping. He looked over at Yara and saw she was smiling at him, though it wasn’t like her joking smiles from earlier. Small, tight-lipped and contained, it was a smile of amazed respect.  

Ser Jaime nodded his head begrudgingly. “Better,” He said. “Much better. You may not die in this battle after all, Lord Greyjoy.”

For the first time in hours, Theon felt himself smile, and then he laughed. “Same to you, Kingslay – _Ser Jaime._ ” He looked over at Yara and found her raising her eyebrow at him, before nodding her head at Ser Jaime. Theon sighed and turned back to him, realizing what Yara must have taken issue with. “My sister wants you to know that I’m to be addressed as ‘Prince Theon’, not ‘Lord Greyjoy’, considering Queen Daenerys has agreed to grant sovereignty to the Iron Islands.”

Yara nodded and gave him a look of approval, letting Theon know he’d picked up on her non-verbal clues properly.

Ser Jaime chuckled. “Very well then. Keep practicing. I shall take my leave of you now, _Prince Theon._ ” He nodded at Yara. “Your Grace. Goodnight.”

Yara smirked.

“Goodnight, ser.”

When they were alone, Theon drew a fresh arrow and was going to shoot again, but Yara stood up. “Tired?” He asked. She shook her head. “Bored of me already then?” Yara rolled her eyes in response and Theon laughed quietly to himself. “Thanks to Ser Jaime’s instruction I may finally be able to protect you now, even if I am short one hand.”

Yara closed the distance between them so she could smack him lightly upside the head.

“What, you object to needing protection?”

She smacked him again, a little harder.

Theon chuckled again and even Yara cracked a smile, but then he grew serious. “You will make a very good queen, you know that right?” She looked away. “I’m serious. And I swear, I’m never going to leave your side. Not again. You’re my queen, and you’re my sister. Now and always.”

Reluctantly, Yara smiled at him.

And Theon thought this was something worth living for indeed.

* * *

**Samwell** :

“I finally got Little Sam to sleep.”

He looked up from the hefty tome he was reading about the first Long Night as Gilly slipped quietly into the library. “I’ll be up in a little bit to check up on him.” He told her. “It’s late, you should go to bed.”

Gilly crossed the room towards him and leaned up against the desk where Sam was seated. “I sleep better when you’re in bed with me. Come, you’ve worked enough for one night…”

Sam smiled and took her hand, pressing a gentle kiss along her knuckles. Her hair was loose and her nightgown was slipping down one of her shoulders, and he was tempted to forego his reading to spend the night with her, but… “I want to, but I can’t. We need to find a way to defeat the Night King, Gilly, and soon. Bran could possibly find a solution, but he needs to know where to look. I have to find _something_ , some specific event he could see…”

With a slight sigh, Gilly pushed off the desk and moved to sit in his lap, her legs straddling his waist. She was blocking Sam’s view of his book and his rational mind knew he should tell her that he was serious, that he _really_ had work to do, but Gilly’s arms wrapped around his neck and he could feel her body against his groin. The warmth spreading throughout his body cut off his protests. “All the information in those books will still be there tomorrow morning.” Gilly said. “You need your sleep. And I need you…” She brought her lips to his.

“Gilly, I can’t – I have to – ” But even as he objected, Sam deepened the kiss and his hands feel to her waist, pulling her closer to him. Even a man of duty still had needs sometimes…

“Come to bed.” His lover insisted. “Wouldn’t you rather have a warm, human woman than a dusty, old book?”

Sam’s resolve wavered. “Yes – ”

They were interrupted by the sound of the library door opening and Gilly immediately jumped off his lap, her cheeks flushed from surprise. Bran paused in the doorway as he wheeled himself in, his eyes flitting from Sam to Gilly and back again. “Should I come back later?”

Sam could feel his face turning red from embarrassment and Gilly also looked fifty shades of pink as she pulled her nightgown back on her shoulder. “No,” He forced himself to tell Bran, the moment ruined. “Gilly and I were just…saying goodnight.”

“Yes,” Gilly agreed immediately and, blushing, she kissed Sam chastely on the cheek. “I’ll be upstairs. Don’t stay up too late.” She said, before bowing her head towards Bran and quickly making her way out of the room.

Bran watched her go with a look of rare amusement on his face. “Saying goodnight, hmm?”

“We were.” Sam insisted, but his voice broke over the second word, and he knew Bran didn’t believe him. He should’ve known better than to lie to Bran – nothing could get past the boy who could see anything happening in the world at any time.

He froze when he saw another woman slink into the library, closing the door behind her. Though they had never been formerly introduced, Sam knew her immediately: red dress, red hair, red necklace, she was the one they called the Red Woman. “Samwell Tarly, I presume?” Lady Melisandre said to him with a coy half-smile.

Sam only looked at Bran. “What is she doing here?” He didn’t like Melisandre on principle. He’d heard about the atrocities she’d committed, the people she’d burned alive in Stannis Baratheon’s quest for the Iron Throne, and Jon had vowed to hang her as a murderer. Maybe Daenerys had convinced him to spare Melisandre for now, but that didn’t make her a good person, or what she’d done any less vile.

“She told me she had something important to tell me,” Bran said in his monotonous tone. “I brought her here to listen to what she has to say.”

“I don’t bite, Samwell Tarly.” Melisandre said, slinking towards him with that same coy smile.

“No,” Sam said. “But you do burn children.”

He saw what he swore was a flicker of remorse cross her face, but it was gone in an instant. “Everything I’ve done, I did for the greater good.” She said. “The one true god showed me the way, so that I could help Jon Snow in his destiny.”

_If you think Jon would’ve condoned you killing innocents, you’re wrong._ Sam wanted to say, but Bran spoke before he could raise another objection. “Gods,” He said, wheeling himself closer to Sam’s desk. “R’hllor is but one of many. Samwell here grew up worshipping the Faith of the Seven. And here, in the North, the old gods of the weirwood trees still rule. How are the likes of men to know who the one true god really is? All of us claim we have it right.”

Melisandre looked perturbed, but remained firm in her position. “The Lord of Light _is_ the one true god. He has shown me visions in the flames to help and guide me, here to this moment. He showed me a vision of _you_ , in fact. You and the man with the thousand eyes…I thought you were servants of the Great Other. But you’re not, are you? You spoke up for me, in the courtyard.”

“I did,” Bran said, while Sam watched on in fascination. “You see I have visions too. The greensight has existed in the blood of the First Men for many years, and the greatest greenseers could wear the skin of any beast and look through the eyes of the weirwoods to see the most hidden truths. There is greater knowledge beyond this world that some of us can tap into, but only rarely – and among those there are even fewer who can decipher what these fragmented images and pieces of prophecy truly mean. There are no gods, Lady Melisandre, only nature and the order of the world. Only men with powers so great and so terrifying that they’ve been deified in stories, so that their memories live on forever.”

Melisandre’s face had blanched and Sam himself sat still from shock and confusion. _No gods?_ He’d been raised to have faith in the Seven, taught his songs and his prayers, taught that those who lived well would ascend to the seven heavens after they died and those who disobeyed the gods would descend into the unspeakable horrors of the seven hells. He’d been losing his faith for years now – since he was a child he’d prayed to the Mother and the Father, asking them to make him brave and make him strong, to make his father finally love him as a father should love his son, and all his prayers had gone unanswered. But if they were all wrong, if there were no gods at all, then what did that mean for them? What did that mean for life after death? When he died, Sam wondered, what would happen to him? Would he just go into blackness, forget Gilly, forget Little Sam, forget all his family and friends whom he loved, with no hope of ever being reunited with them again? “What is the point of all this then?” Sam found himself blurting out. “If there are no gods, if all of his means nothing, then what are we fighting for?”

Bran turned to him and smiled, almost imperceptibly. “It doesn’t mean nothing. Each of us has this one life to live, and that is what makes it so precious: a mother or father’s smile, the sound of a sibling’s laughter, the joy of holding a child of your own in your arms, of knowing a woman’s love. Love, family, joy, friendship, hope…those are the things that are worth fighting for, because they are what are remembered of us even when we are gone, immortalized in the hearts of those we’ve touched. It is beautiful because it doesn’t last forever.”

Something about the words moved Sam in ways even he couldn't understand, but the Red Woman still did not look convinced. “Maybe your old gods are just stories,” She persisted. “But the Lord is real. He is the one who can help us defeat the darkness once and for all. He’s shown me things, things you can’t even begin to imagine…” She paused and when her eyes met Sam’s, it made his skin prickle. “He has shown me his Warrior of Light, his Azor Ahai reborn, who will save us all with his Red Sword of Heroes. He has shown me the sacrifices that must be made.”

“Lightbringer,” Sam said. “I saw it in this book…” He flipped back through the pages until he saw the illustration of a man driving a glowing sword into a woman’s breast as she moaned with ecstasy and pain. “Azor Ahai ignited the sword by driving it into the heart of his wife, Nissa Nissa.”

“Yes, and Jon Snow is Azor Ahai reborn. That is what I came here to tell you. Daenerys Targaryen is Jon Snow’s wife, as Nissa Nissa was Azor Ahai’s. Her fire of life is needed to forge Lightbringer.”

_Jon kill Daenerys?_ No, Sam would not believe it. It was ludicrous, and even if it were true, Jon would never do it – he loved Daenerys, and she was pregnant with his child. _But Jon is honorable._ Sam added silently to himself. _If he had to sacrifice his wife to save the rest of the world, would he do it?_

Bran looked at Sam. “I know. I read that book two weeks ago, Samwell Tarly. Lady Melisandre is right that Azor Ahai once lived, and he sacrificed his wife to forge Lightbringer – but she is wrong about who must be sacrificed now. There is more to the story. Does ‘Nissa Nissa’ sound like any Westerosi name you’ve ever heard?”

“No, it sounds like it’s…” Melisandre trailed off. “…from Essos.”

“Do you know why Azor Ahai’s sword caught fire when plunged into Nissa Nissa’s heart? It wasn’t because she was his wife, it was because she believed in your god of fire. After her death her family returned to Essos and spread stories about what they had seen. Some called him Hyrkoon the Hero, Yin Tar, Neferion, or Eldric Shadowchaser. Followers of the Lord of Light called him Azor Ahai. But his real name was Brandon Stark, Lord of Winterfell. He was no prophet, just a man faced with an impossible choice, but the followers of R'hllor believed and that belief turned to fire in their hearts. This is why I spoke up for you, Lady Melisandre. I know that we need you if we want to win this fight.”

Sam opened his mouth, but no words came out. He looked at Melisandre and saw that a look of silent resignation had crossed her features. Their eyes met and Sam knew they were both thinking the same thing. “I’ve been ready to die for many years.” She said solemnly. “If this is truly what must be done, then it shall be done.”

“Other sacrifices must be made.” Bran said, his voice grave. “I’ve seen – ” Suddenly he stopped speaking and when Sam looked over at him, he saw that Bran’s eyes had rolled back into his head, his hands clenching the arms of his wheelchair so hard that his knuckles turned white. He thrashed as he was overtaken by the vision.

“Bran?” Sam said. “Bran?” Bran still trapped in the throes of his vision, Sam moved to kneel before his chair and grabbed onto his arms to steady him. “What do you see, Bran? What do you see?” Behind him, Melisandre only backed away, looking appalled.

Bran suddenly snapped upright, his eyes returning to normal, and his breathing labored as he recovered from his ordeal. “The Night King – I saw him, he – two days, Sam, he’ll be here in two days – ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Tyrion, Jon, Davos, Gendry. (And I swear next chapter will be up quicker than this one was!)


	11. The Night Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion says some goodbyes; Jon reflects on his family's future; Davos gives some paternal advice; Gendry is confronted.

**Tyrion** :

“I need a woman.”   

Tyrion looked up from his book and his wine as Bronn strode into the library unannounced. “Come again?”

Bronn shrugged. “I’m going into battle tomorrow – I could very well die. I’ve got no wife since your brother convinced me to leave Lollys behind, and I don’t see your promised bride anywhere, so I’m going to find myself a whore for tonight. Not a blonde one though – I think all these blonde Lannister cunts have ruined that hair color for me.”

Tyrion sighed and drained the rest of his cup in one long gulp. “I told you, when the war is over I’ll give you twice what Cersei promised.”

“What, two wives and two castles?” Bronn chuckled. “Regardless, that won’t do me much good tonight. You want to come?”

“No thank you.”

“Suit yourself then, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Wait.” Tyrion dug into his pocket, tossing a golden dragon coin towards Bronn, who caught it mid-air. “Get yourself the best-looking woman in the place, on me.”

Bronn smirked. “You’re a good man, Lannister. What are you going to do tonight? Get drunk?”

Tyrion shook his head. “I don’t think so. If I want to stay alive tomorrow, I think it best that I’m not hungover.”

“That’s probably a good idea.” Bronn stopped in the doorway, a look akin to affection in his eyes. “Stay safe tomorrow, Tyrion.”

“You as well, my friend.”

After Bronn left him, he tried to focus on the random book he’d selected from Winterfell’s shelves: _Winter's Kings, or the Legends and Lineages of the Starks of Winterfell_ by Maester Childer. But as Tyrion tried to read a ballad about how the legendary Bran the Builder constructed the Wall, he found that his mind could not focus, the words on the page seeming a jumbled mess. Usually reading could always ease his woes, but tonight it seemed his woes were too great. Finally he gave up entirely and left the room, hoping that a walk around the castle would clear his head. 

First he went to his brother’s room to see if Jaime cared to join him, but when he opened the door he was surprised to see Jaime was not alone. He was seated at the table across from the queen, talking over some glasses of wine. Well, Jaime was talking – Daenerys looked as if she’d been crying. When Tyrion entered, they both rose to their feet. “Am I interrupting something?”

“I was just leaving.” Daenerys told him. She turned back to Jaime and he bowed his head respectfully. “Thank you for telling me the truth, Ser Jaime. I will not forget it.”

“It was no trouble, Your Grace.”

When the queen left, Tyrion gave Jaime a look. “What did you say to her?”

“Nothing.” Jaime said, draining the rest of his wine. “She asked me about her father, what he was like, why I killed him. She said you told her that story once before?”

“Yes. Do you really think that what a prick her father was is what she needed to hear the night before the greatest battle any of us have ever seen?”

“She _asked_ ,” Jaime said defensively. “And we didn’t just talk about her father. She asked me about her mother too, and Prince Rhaegar. I answered honestly – figured I owed her the truth, since there’s a chance both of us may die tomorrow.” Tyrion couldn't exactly argue with that. 

Together they went downstairs to hopefully clear their heads with a walk around the grounds, but when they went to cut through the great hall they stumbled upon quite a scene. All of the Wintertown residents were lined up, the Winterfell servants spooning them bowls of soup and pouring mugs of tea, those who had already been served eating and drinking on their pallets on the floor. Tyrion spotted Sansa walking among them, Lady Brienne by her side. Sansa would squeeze their outstretched hands or get down on her knees to pinch their babies’ cheeks. Two little girls ran up to her and tugged on her skirt, something which their mother chastised them for, but Sansa only laughed and knelt to speak to the girls in a gentle voice.

“She has a kind heart,” Jaime said, and when Tyrion turned his head he saw his brother was giving him a knowing look. “Lady Stark.”

Tyrion cleared his throat. “Yes, well…” He glanced at Lady Brienne, who was smiling tentatively at two young boys playing with toy swords. “Do you fancy Lady Brienne?”

When he looked at Jaime again, his face had gone pale. “No,” He sputtered. “No, absolutely not…”

 _Liar_. Tyrion wanted to say, but he bit his tongue. “That’s too bad, because I think she fancies you.”

Jaime looked at him warily. “…You really think so?”

At that moment, Sansa caught Tyrion’s gaze and she began to approach them, gesturing for Lady Brienne to follow. “Lord Tyrion,” The Lady of Winterfell greeted them politely. “Ser Jaime.”

“Good evening, Lady Stark.” Tyrion noticed that though Jaime was speaking to Sansa, he was looking at Brienne.

Lady Sansa’s blue eyes flicked from Jaime to Tyrion to Brienne. “Lady Brienne, you’ve had a long night. Why don’t you and Ser Jaime go have a drink, or take a walk? I’d like to have a word with Lord Tyrion.”

Brienne nodded. “Certainly.” Jaime gave Tyrion a squeeze on the shoulder before he left.

Sansa extended her arm to him. “Care to take a turn about the room with me, my lord?”

“Of course.” They walked arm-in-arm without speaking for a few moments, Sansa looking around to make sure that all of the smallfolk were eating. She ordered one of the maids to go upstairs for more blankets. “I have to say, Lady Sansa,” Tyrion remarked. “What you’re doing for them is very generous.”

“It’s the least I could do. Tomorrow all of our futures will be thrown into disarray, and I want to help them while I still can.” At the mention of the forthcoming battle, Sansa’s face grew serious. “You see, my lord, that is what I wish to discuss. You’ll look after yourself tomorrow, I hope?”

Was this truly all? Had Sansa simply pulled him aside to ask about his welfare? “Indeed.” Tyrion said. “I’d ask the same of you, but considering what I saw of you and Lady Brienne yesterday, it looks like I need not worry.”

Sansa flushed and ducked her head, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I wish you hadn’t seen that. I know I probably made a fool of myself…”

“I can assure you, you didn’t.” For a moment Tyrion couldn’t help but remember the look of her legs in those pants, and he felt dirty and wrong. “As for me, I’ve miraculously survived my fair share of battles. Hopefully I’ll survive this one too.”

They stopped in their path as a child’s ball rolled by their feet. A little girl was chasing after it, about four or five years old. Tyrion bent down to pick the ball up and the little girl stopped in front of him, suddenly looking bashful. “I believe this is yours?”

The girl smiled and ducked her head. “Yes m’lord. I’m sorry m’lord.” Her hair was a tangle mess of red curls, her eyes a lovely shade of blue, and her words came out with a lisp because she was missing her two front teeth. As Tyrion handed the ball back to her, he could not help but notice that the child bore a striking resemblance to Lady Sansa, enough that she could’ve passed for Sansa’s own daughter.

“No need to apologize.” He told her gently. “Run along and play.” The girl gave him a gap-toothed smile, curtsied to Sansa, and scampered off.

When he looked back at Sansa, she was smiling. “She’s very precious. I…” She trailed off. “I think I might like to have children someday. If I survive this.”

Tyrion was a bit surprised by the definitiveness of her statement. After what Sansa had been through, he would not have blamed her if she swore off marriage and children altogether. Though, after the loss of so many family members, he supposed he couldn’t blame her for wanting to rebuild her home and have a husband and children, a complete family once more. “You deserve that.”

He suddenly hoped, more than anything, that Sansa would live to achieve it.

* * *

 **Jon** : 

He paused outside his chamber door at the sound of humming, quiet and sweet. His hand on the door handle, Jon couldn’t help but smile to himself. He opened the door and slipped inside. “Daenerys, that’s – ” He cut himself off when he saw that it was not Daenerys, but Missandei, who was in the midst of folding and putting away some of Daenerys’s dresses. “Missandei, I’m sorry. I thought you were Dany.” 

“It is no trouble, Your Grace.” Missandei said, giving him a gentle smile. “Her Grace is in the bath. I’ve brought up some tea for the both of you, may I pour you a cup?”

“No need, Missandei. I can get it myself, thank you.” He crossed the room to the bedside table and picked up the kettle, while Missandei resumed her humming. “What is that song?” Jon asked. It was not one he recognized.

“It’s from my home country, Your Grace.”

“Well, it’s very pretty.”

“It is indeed, Your Grace.” Missandei replied. “A pretty song, and sad as well. It’s about a pair of lovers, you see. The song is told from the woman’s perspective, about how she and her lover lived together happily, until tragic circumstances took him away from her. They never saw each other again.”

Jon took a sip of tea and it was sweet like honey and lavender, but Missandei’s words left a bitter taste in his mouth. “That is sad.”

Missandei smiled at him again, but this smile was small and tight-lipped, and accompanied by a melancholic look in her eyes. “It is – but the woman ends the song by saying that, even though she’s lost her lover, she’s glad that she had him even for a little while. Some people never get to experience a love like that.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” That was what he had with Daenerys, Jon thought. Even in times so fraught with uncertainty, being with Dany had made him feel joy that he’d never known was possible. _But I’m not ready to lose her._ He thought. For once in his life, he wanted to be selfish. He and Daenerys had only known each other seven or eight months, and as wonderful as those few months had been, he didn’t want only a few months. He wanted a lifetime.

“Your Grace?” Missandei said as she put the last of Dany’s dresses away. “Are you all right? You look like your mind is somewhere else.”

Jon shook his head and placed the cup of tea down. He did not think he’d be able to drink any more. “I’m fine Missandei, just tired. Why don’t you take a rest for the remainder of the night?”

“Are you sure, Your Grace? I still need to help Her Grace out of her bath, and dress her for bed – ”

“I’ll get her. Go to bed, spend the night with Grey Worm.”

At the mention of her beloved, a tentative smile came to Missandei’s face. “Of course, Your Grace. Goodnight, Your Grace.”

“Goodnight, Missandei.”

Once she was gone, Jon removed his jerkin and hung up Longclaw, before walking into the adjoining room to check up on Daenerys. She was submerged in the tub with her back to him, her silver-gold hair flowing loose, and she did not seem to hear him enter. The air smelled strongly of lilac-scented bath oil. “Dany?”

At the sound of her name, his wife bolted upright in surprise, spilling some water onto the floor. She turned around to face him and Jon saw her wipe furiously at her eyes. “Jon, I…I didn’t hear you come in…”

Jon picked up a towel and moved closer to her, offering Daenerys a hand to help her out of the bath. She smiled at him as she wrapped herself in the towel, but it did not quite reach her eyes, and Jon noticed that her eyes were red and puffy. She had been crying. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, my love – ”

Jon cut her off. “You’ve been crying. Do you want to talk about it? Is it the battle tomorrow?”

Daenerys shook her head. “No – at least, not entirely. I’m not afraid. I just…” She trailed off. “Can we go sit?”

“Of course.” They retired back into their bed chamber and Daenerys dropped her towel to the floor, padding naked across the room towards her bureau. Her hair hung all the way down to her back and Jon could make out the barely perceptible swell of her belly, the newfound roundness between her hips the only physical manifestation of her two month pregnancy. Well, that and her increasingly large breasts. Jon could feel his breeches tighten at the thought, but he resisted the urge. Now was not the time.

Daenerys slipped on a nightgown and picked up a hairbrush. “Let me.” Jon said.

She gave him a curious look. “You want to brush my hair?”

“Why not?”

Jon changed into his nightshirt and then slipped into bed behind Daenerys. He ran the brush up and down her hair for several moments in comfortable silence and he felt the tension leave Dany’s shoulders. “That feels wonderful.”

Jon smiled and kissed the top of her head. “I’m glad.”

Daenerys paused, then turned around to face Jon and pulled her knees to her chest. “I was talking to Jaime Lannister tonight.”

His eyebrows furrowed and he pushed a strand of hair behind Dany’s ear. “Did he say something that upset you?” He tolerated Ser Jaime well enough, but if he’d made Daenerys cry, that was unacceptable.  

“It wasn’t like that. I had some questions for him…about my family.” Daenerys leaned forward to rest her chin on her knee. “Tyrion told me once that Jaime killed my father because he was going to burn King’s Landing down with wildfire – he would’ve killed every person in the city, half a million men, women and children, if Jaime hadn’t driven his sword through my father’s back. I asked Ser Jaime if this was true, and he said it was. He told me everything.” Jon saw tears form in the corners of her violet eyes again. “I knew that my father was mad, but it was still not an easy thing to hear…”

Jon pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I’m sorry. I know this must be difficult for you.”

“I asked him about my mother too. And Rhaegar. Ser Jaime said that my mother was kind and faithful, a devoted mother and a dutiful wife, even if her marriage to my father wasn’t what she wanted. He said her smile was like mine, but her family was the only thing that could make her smile. He apologized to me for not protecting her better – from my father.” Jon did not ask her to explain further. He could imagine what horrible things Aerys had probably done to Rhaella, and it was a thought he did not want to linger on...

“And Rhaegar?” Jon knew so little about his sire. Daenerys had told him a few things that she’d learned from Jorah or her dead brother, but in the moment he ached to know more. He wanted to know what Rhaegar had really been like, his strengths and his faults, and what it was that had made his mother fall for him. _Am I anything like him?_ He couldn't help but wonder. 

“He was studious when he was young. He loved to read and study, loved it more than sword fighting. He was introspective, though he did have a few close companions. He was quite brooding – that must be where you got it from.” Jon chuckled to himself at that. “Ser Jaime says when Rhaegar decided he was going to do something, he excelled at it. The smallfolk loved him, because he was kind towards them and cared about their wellbeing – at tourneys they always cheered the loudest for him. The last time Jaime saw him, Rhaegar told him that when he returned, things were going to change in King’s Landing. Only he never returned. He was going to call a Great Council to have our father deemed unfit to rule, and I think he was going to put Elia of Dorne aside, to make Lyanna his queen.”

As glad as Jon was that his parents had been truly in love, he frowned at the thought of Elia Martell. He’d never heard anything but nice things about her, the kind and gentle princess with such a tragic fate. “I feel sorry for Elia.” He found himself saying. “She didn’t deserve what happened to her.”

Daenerys nodded in agreement. “Ser Jaime said the same. My brother Viserys always talked so callously about her – said that if Elia had done a better job at making Rhaegar happy, he never would’ve needed Lyanna and the war would have been prevented. I don’t think that was true. Elia did nothing to deserve what befell her, and Rhaegar was so blinded by love that he didn’t protect her as he should have. My mother wasn’t around to look after her, and my father never cared about her. Even someone as smart as Rhaegar makes mistakes sometimes.”

Jon opened his arms for her and Daenerys scooted closer to him, her head resting against his chest. Her words reminded him of something. “Rhaegar used to write letters to Maester Aemon. He was your and Rhaegar’s…great-great uncle, I believe. And my three times great uncle.”

“You haven’t told me much about him,” Daenerys said. “Maester Aemon. What was he like? Was he a great man?”

“The greatest.” How could he even find the words to describe what Aemon had been like? Jon had admired the man, and suddenly he missed him desperately. The old maester had been his flesh and blood, but he'd died without knowing that they were related. Jon wished for some of Maester Aemon’s wise counsel right now. “He was dutiful, and always fair and just. He was the wisest person I’d ever met, and all the men on the Wall would go to him for advice. He would always listen to what you had to say and tell you the best thing to do in your situation. He was horrified about what had happened to House Targaryen – to Rhaegar, to Elia, to her children – but he had to be loyal to the Watch. He loved his family and it killed him that he couldn’t do anything to help them. When he heard that you were alive in Meereen, he wished that there was something he could do to help you. I think he would be glad to know that we are together now.”

“He did help his family. He helped you.” Daenerys burrowed further into his embrace. “I know so much tragedy has befallen our family. But perhaps this time it can be different.”

“Perhaps.” They sat in silence for several moments and Jon tightened his grip around Daenerys, wishing that he could keep her there forever. He knew they were both thinking of the battle tomorrow and the uncertainty they were facing.

Daenerys pulled back to look at him. “Jon,” She said, her voice tremoring. “Promise me you won’t die tomorrow. Please be safe, I…I don’t want to live without you.”

Jon Snow was not the kind of man to say things he did not mean. _I cannot make that promise._ He wanted to say, because as much as he tried there was still a chance that something could go wrong. But as he looked into Daenerys’s eyes, so sad and full of pain, it made him hurt too and suddenly he cared more about making her feel better than he did about telling the truth. He kissed her lightly on the temple and pulled his wife further into his arms.

“I promise.”

* * *

 **Davos** : 

“Who was the first man you killed?”

Davos rubbed his hands in front of the open flame. They were seated around a fire pit and a wineskin was being passed around, Tormund Giantsbane taking a swig from it as he asked that particular question. He handed the wineskin off to Brienne of Tarth and smiled at her, though she looked like she’d rather be anywhere but there next to him. She grabbed the wineskin but didn’t take a sip, passing it off to Ser Jaime on her other side.

“Mine were Robar Royce and Emmon Cuy,” Brienne answered. She was staring into the depths of the flames, looking as if her mind was someplace else. “It was after Stannis had Renly killed. I’d fought men before, even won my fair share of fights, but it was the first time I’d ever actually killed anyone. They had been my own sworn brothers, but they thought I’d killed Renly when they saw his body in my arms, and they would not listen to reason. It happened so fast, it’s all a blur now.”

Tormund nodded. “What about you, Kingslayer?” He asked Ser Jaime.

Davos could see Jaime Lannister roll his eyes. “That’s not my name, you know.” He said, taking a long sip from the wineskin before answering. “I was sixteen, during the campaign against the Kingswood Brotherhood. Didn’t know the man’s name. I remember his face though.” He passed the wineskin off to Davos.

Davos held the skin in his hands for a moment, staring down at it before he tentatively took a sip. It was a dry red wine, probably from the Arbor, and it tasted like dark cherries, black currant, and spicy oak, with a hint of a smoky aftertaste. “Hard to say, for me.” He said. “After I pledged myself to Stannis’s cause, I fought for him by captaining the _Black Betha_ , and before that I had been a smuggler for many years. Sea battles are a very impersonal method of warfare. You can kill a man without ever having looked upon his face.”

He leaned over to pass the wine to Sandor Clegane, who was sitting farther away from them at the other end of the fire. The other man muttered something under his breath and took the wine. He took one long sip, paused, and then took another. “Killed my first man at twelve. During the sack of King’s Landing.”

The Hound took another sip but Tormund was still staring at him. When he saw that the Hound wasn’t going to add anymore, he raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“And what?” The Hound replied. “He was just some City Watch cunt. He bled a lot.”

“You were _twelve_ ,” Brienne persisted stubbornly. “Wasn’t it…I don’t know, traumatizing?”

The Hound shrugged and drained the rest of the wineskin. “Not really. I was already fucked up by the time I was twelve.”  

“Well,” Tormund sighed. “I’ve got you all beat. I killed my first man at eleven.”

The Hound scoffed. “You’re a liar.”

“It’s true! He was trying to steal our family’s foodstuffs in the night, so I hit him on the back of the head with my father’s spear. I saved our food, but I got a beating from my father for getting blood all over the hut.”

The Hound snorted into the wineskin. “You are one sick fuck, Giantsbane.”

“As are you, Dog.” The two men held each other’s gaze for a moment, and Davos was suddenly nervous one of them was going to punch the other, but then they both burst out laughing. Soon Davos found himself laughing too, and Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime joined in, and there they were, sitting around a fire and passing around the wineskin as the world ended around them, laughing hysterically.

They were finishing the wine when Gendry appeared from the forge. “What are you all doing?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest as he approached. “It’s freezing out here.”

The Hound rolled his eyes. “There you go, whinging again…”

“I’m not _whinging_.”

“Now you’re whinging about me saying you’re whinging! By the way, you better go talk to your little wolf bitch – after what happened yesterday, I think she wants to cut your balls off.” The Hound stood up. “I gotta piss.” He grunted, before unceremoniously stalking off towards the castle.

“You know,” Tormund said. “Beyond the Wall, we have plenty of ways to keep warm on a cold winter’s night.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively at Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime.

Both of them immediately jumped to their feet, simultaneously mumbling excuses of “I think I heard Lady Stark just call for me” and “Oh, it's getting late, Tyrion’s expecting me”, to which Tormund bolted upright and went after them.

“Well, they can join in, if you’d like. The more the merrier, I always say – ”

Now that they were alone, Davos extended the mostly-empty wineskin to Gendry, who moved to sit next to him by the fire. Gendry took a sip and winced. “Father Above, that’s awful. Lords and ladies drink this by choice?”

Davos chuckled. “I think I’ll always be an ale man myself, but I’ll take what I can get tonight.” He drained the last of the wine, his mind flicking back to something the Hound had said. “Clegane mentioned that something happened between you and Lady Arya yesterday?”

Immediately, Gendry grimaced. “It was stupid. Let’s talk about it later.”

“We’re marching into battle tomorrow, lad. This may be the only chance we get.”

Gendry was silent for a long moment. “I…have feelings for her. More than friendly feelings.”

Davos nodded and waited for him to continue. Was this supposed to be some big revelation? Davos had suspected as much since the moment on the ship when he told Gendry that Arya was alive. The look on Gendry's face in that instant had been a look of love, even if he hadn't realized it himself at the time. 

“And there was a…a moment, when I thought that maybe she felt the same way – which she _doesn’t_ – but I blew it, because what Melisandre did to me…it messed me up, I think. And Arya’s pissed at me for what I did, and for being jealous about Podrick Payne of all people, but I don’t know how to tell her that I’m still scarred over something that happened years ago. It’s stupid, I know I should be over it by now…”

“Lad,” Davos said, clamping him on the shoulder. “What you went through was horrible. You can’t continue to blame yourself for what happened to you, and it’s all right to be afraid. I’m sure if you went to Lady Arya and told her the truth, she would understand.”

Gendry shook his head. “What does it matter?” He said. “She’ll never feel the same way about me. She likes Podrick – and why shouldn’t she? He’s highborn, better for her than me…No matter what I do, I’m still just a bastard. She deserves better.”

“Bullshit.” Davos insisted. “You’re the only son of King Robert of House Baratheon. And what does blood really matter anyway? We love who we love, and we have no say in it.” When he saw that Gendry still wasn’t convinced, he tried a different tactic. “You know, when I first met my wife, back when I was still a young smuggler, she had many admirers. She was one of the most beautiful girls in town – she could’ve had any man she wanted, and yet she chose me.”

“Really?” Gendry said, incredulous. “How did you…how did you get her to fall in love with you?”

“I didn’t do anything, really.” Davos chuckled. “Except make a fool of myself. We were friends first, you see, and there was this apprentice at her father’s carpentry shop who was trying to make a move on her. I couldn’t take it anymore, so one day…I punched him in the face.”

Gendry laughed before he could stop it. “And that worked?”

“Seven hells no! I broke three of the fingers in my hand, and Marya wouldn’t let me hear the end of it. ‘What were you doing,’ She said, ‘trying to fight a man like that? He’s twice your size!’ But then she bandaged my hand and kissed me for the first time. Said that I was an idiot, but I was her idiot. A fortnight later, I married her. To this day, it’s still one of the happiest moments of my life.” _Swore that I would spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of her,_ Davos added silently to himself. _But I don’t know if I’ve lived up to that promise…_

Gendry smiled forlornly. “It’s a nice story.”

“Marya is an exceptional woman, as is Lady Arya.” Davos said. “You should talk to her, lad. I think she’ll understand, and you’ll never know if you don’t try. We might die tomorrow – and if we die, we should die without regrets.” _It might be too late for me, but not for you._

They sat in silence for a long moment, both of them staring into the depths of the now dwindling fire. Above them, clouds had formed in the grey sky and it was beginning to snow. “Fuck that red god.” Gendry said after a long moment.

Davos nodded. “Yes,” He agreed. “Fuck that red god.”

* * *

 **Gendry** :

He didn’t know what to say to her.

_Hey Arya, sorry I’m such a stupid lowborn idiot, but I’m still traumatized over being attacked by a red witch and by the way, I was angry at Podrick because I want to be with you more than I want to keep breathing?_

No, bad idea.

He hammered away with a violent force, working on some finishing touches before the battle tomorrow. Maybe he should just go looking for her – he could figure out what to say in the moment, couldn’t he? That was, if Arya would even hear him out at all…

Gendry dropped his hammer. He’d been such a bloody fool and he knew he didn’t deserve her, but then he thought of Ser Davos’s advice. There was a very good chance that his life could end tomorrow, and if he was going to die, he wanted to die knowing that he’d been completely honest with Arya.

But before he could go searching for her, he heard the telltale sounds of womanly feet tiptoeing towards him.

He sighed. “You know Arya, you _could_ knock.”

Gendry turned around and saw her standing in the open doorway, the candle in her hand illuminating the smirk on her face. “Where’s the fun in that?”

She placed the candle down on the tabletop and Gendry examined her unusual state of dress. Her hair was down, she wore only a nightgown with a fur wrap, and her feet were bare, even though it was snowing outside. “Couldn’t sleep?” He asked her.

“Yeah.” Arya paused. “I missed talking to you.”    

Gendry looked down at the ground, unsure of what to say. How could he even begin to explain to her the complicated mess that was his feelings? Instead he simply blurted out: “Want to see what I’m working on?”

“…Sure.”

Arya closed the distance between them, pulling her fur tighter around her body, and he held up a black breastplate decorated with a Targaryen red dragon, curling across the chest. “I made this for Jon.”

Arya’s eyes were wide as saucers and she tentatively reached out to touch the swirling dragon design, staring in awe. “How did you make this?”

“It's red dragonglass. I carved out the design then filled it in with smashed pieces. You think Jon will like it?”

“Gendry, it’s beautiful. He’s going to love it.”

“There’s one more thing…” He felt suddenly nervous as he reached under the table and pulled out a second piece of armor, identical to the first – except this one was decorated not with a dragon, but with a snarling silver direwolf mid-leap. “This one is for you. It was a little hard since I didn’t have your measurements – I had to sweettalk one of Sansa’s handmaids to persuade her to steal some of your clothes so I could measure.”

Arya opened her mouth, then closed it. Gendry didn’t know if he’d ever seen her at a loss for words before. “Gendry, I…I don’t know what to say…”

“You could say you’ll wear it in the battle tomorrow.”

Arya grinned at him and he felt a surge of pride run through him, knowing she liked his gift. “I absolutely love it. Of course I’ll wear it!”

He placed the breastplate down on the tabletop while Arya stared in fascination at the silver detailing on the iron. Gendry wondered if he should just leave the conversation there, since she didn’t seem to be mad at him anymore, but then he thought about what Ser Davos had said. “Arya…I’m sorry. For what I said the other day.”

Arya’s smile dissipated and she placed the armor back down. “About Podrick? So you’re finally admitting you were wrong then?”

“Can you just shut up and let me finish?” Arya turned to look at him, crossing her arms over her chest, and Gendry took a deep breath. “I know I was stupid, but I…I knew he liked you, and I thought maybe you liked him, and I was jealous.”

“Jealous?” Arya repeated. “Why would you be jealous?”

“Because I…” He fumbled with his words and Arya was staring at him impatiently, waiting for an answer. “Because…I like you. As more than just a friend. But after what happened in the forge, I didn’t think you could feel the same way about me, and I didn’t know how to tell you. I was an idiot, and I’m sorry.”

Arya stared at him for a long moment, looking confused. _Gods,_ Gendry thought. _When is she going to stop being so shocked and finally realize that men find her attractive?_ “Why did you push me away then?” Arya asked quietly. “The night I kissed you.”

An image of Melisandre ran through his mind, of how she had kissed him and touched him and taken off her clothes, then tied him up on the bed and stolen his blood. He had wanted to kiss Arya that night, had wanted to lay with her even, and maybe he would have but the minute she pinned his arms over his head, it had reminded him of Melisandre. It hadn’t been Arya’s fault, she hadn’t known it would trigger him, but in that moment he’d snapped at her in his fear. “Do you remember what I told you, about what happened between me and Melisandre? When she took me, she…” Gendry paused. “She did something to me. Physically, and…on the inside too, I think. It’s harder now. To get close.” He looked down at the ground. “And besides – I’m just a bastard. You’re a highborn lady. You deserve someone like Podrick, someone from a noble house, someone who can give you a good life.”  

He felt stupid saying it out loud and Arya stood in front of him silently for a minute, staring at him. Gendry wondered if she was going to turn and go, but then she caught him off guard by closing the distance between them. She had to stand on her tiptoes so she could reach to cup his face. “Don’t say that.” She said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re more than just a bastard. You’re…you’re one of the best people I know. And I would never, _ever_ hurt you like she did. You know that, right?” 

Slowly, Gendry nodded. “And I would never hurt you.”

This time, he kissed her first.  

Their lips crushed together and Arya’s hands fell from his face to grab onto the fabric of his shirt, while his hands moved down the curves of her body to rest comfortably on her hips. She nipped at him like the little wolf she was and the kiss deepened, enough that he lost himself in it. It was only when Arya shrugged off her fur and reached for the buckle on his pants that pulled away.

“ _Arya_.” As much as he wanted to keep kissing her, he knew that if they kept going he wouldn’t be able to stop. He grabbed her by the wrist, halting her. “Are you sure…?”

Arya’s eyes blazed stubbornly. “I want to. Don’t you?”

“Yes, but…” He felt warm and he didn’t know if it was from the fire in the forge, or his embarrassment. “Melisandre, she was the only one…and it wasn’t exactly… _pleasant_.” There'd been Flea Bottom girls he'd shared chaste kisses with as a boy, then Melisandre's seduction, but he'd never made love to a woman before. Especially not a beautiful, strong-willed, feisty highborn girl. “I’ve never done any of this before.” 

Arya’s eyes softened. “We can go slow.” She paused, biting her lip. “I don’t know what I’m doing either. I’ve never been with anyone. This is all new to me too.”

This surprised Gendry for some reason. They’d spent years apart and during that time she’d transformed into this young woman who was now standing before him, fierce and beautiful. He’d assumed that at some point in those years someone had taken her maidenhead. She spent all that time with Jaqen (who Gendry had always secretly felt a little jealous of), Lord Beric’s squire had fancied her once upon a time, and Podrick Payne had been looking at her with infatuation in his eyes. Gendry assumed that there had been many more men who found her attractive, but perhaps she’d never returned their affections. “Never?”

Arya shook her head. “No. I’d never even kissed anyone, before you. You’re the only one.”

Their lips met again but still Gendry was unsure. “What if I get you with child?” He had sworn to himself he would never father a bastard.

Arya kissed him again, lighter this time. “That won’t happen. That's what a girl has moon tea for.” She pulled away from him to slip her nightgown down her shoulders and the fabric formed a puddle on the forge floor. She was not wearing anything underneath and Gendry’s eyes swept over her body, taking in her small, goosebump-covered breasts, her slim stomach and thighs, every impeccable womanly curve. For the first time he noticed the long, puckered scar on her abdomen and he tentatively pulled her closer to him, tracing the line with his finger.

“Who did this to you? The Waif?” Arya nodded and Gendry cursed to himself. “That bitch is lucky she’s already dead. Otherwise I’d kill her – _slowly_.”

Arya laughed quietly as she pulled his shirt over his head. “Ours is the fury, indeed.” Her fingers nimbly undid the buckle on his pants.

Gendry placed a finger under her chin and tilted her head upward, so she had to look him in the eyes. “M’lady, are you certain that you want to – ?”

She cut him off with another strong kiss. “I’m quite sure. We’re marching into battle tomorrow. You wouldn’t let your lady die a maiden, would you?” She pulled down his pants.

They stood there before each other, vulnerable, naked and willing, and Arya stared up at him, breathing heavily. In that instant, Gendry was certain that he loved her. He kissed her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, her neck, her collarbone…he wanted to savor every inch of her. “As m’lady commands.”

This could very well be their last night alive, and they were going to make the most of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Bran.


	12. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The living face off against the dead in order to defeat the Night King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way I wrote this chapter was very, VERY experimental. It was definitely hard to write. Unpopular opinion confession: the battle episodes of GoT are some of my least favorites (yes, even Blackwater and Hardhome, though I do really enjoy BotB mostly because we got to see Sansa feed her vile rapist alive to his own dogs...) so writing a chapter that was nothing but battle was trying. I hope you guys like it though!
> 
> Warning: there is some character death.

**Bran** : 

The early morning was grey and cold. Every blade of grass had turned white from ice and snow was continuing to fall as dark clouds rolled in, the flakes big and fat. Bran turned his eyes up towards the sky and watched as the flakes accumulated on his lashes. The Night King was coming, and the winds of winter were coming with him.

Sansa pushed his chair towards the godswood, where he would be staying for the duration of the battle. He spotted Arya already there waiting for them.  In that moment, he thought that his two sisters, both so different, looked more alike than they ever had: both dressed in grey pants, their hair pulled back, each with a skinny sword sheathed at the waist, Arya also with the Valyrian steel dagger he’d given her. “That’s a very nice breastplate Gendry made you.”

Arya turned to look at him, eyebrows knitted together. “Thanks…”

Bran examined her and noticed that her tunic was sticking up in the back. “Seems you two dressed in a hurry this morning. Neither of you noticed your shirt is untucked?”

Arya’s look of confusion turned into one of embarrassment, and then of anger. “You were _watching_ us?”

Bran scoffed. “Not during the act. Do you really think so low of me, Arya? I’m not a pervert.” Still fuming, Arya turned back around, but said nothing. Sansa looked perturbed and glanced from one of them to the other. She opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it and simply rolled her eyes, before fixing Arya’s tunic for her.

They heard Ghost first, the white direwolf emerging from among the trees before Jon followed him half a second later. In that moment, Bran thought he looked like a true king in his brand new Targaryen armor with Ghost by his side. _Ice and fire, both._ He thought. The wolf walked over to Bran’s chair and whined. Bran smiled feebly and scratched Ghost under the chin.

“It’s almost time.” Jon said. Above them, Drogon was circling and Rhaegal landed in the clearing, lowering his head onto his front legs like a dog waiting for its master.

The four siblings looked at each other, and they all knew the meaning behind Jon’s words. The battle was about to start, there was a chance that any one of them could be killed, and this might be their last chance to be together.

Arya moved first, practically tackle hugging Jon as she tossed her arms around his neck. Jon hugged her with enough strength to lift her feet off the ground. “I love you, little sister.”

“I love you too.” Arya whispered. “Stick ‘em with the pointy end, big brother.”

Jon laughed weakly and kissed the top of her head. “I know which end to use.”

He moved to Sansa and hugged her too, Sansa burying her face into his shoulder and inhaling. “You’ll come back to us.” She said, and Bran couldn’t tell if it was meant to reassure Jon or herself. “I know you will. The pack survives, just like Father always said.”

Jon squeezed her tighter and kissed her forehead, lingering before reluctantly pulling away. “I love you, Sansa. Please take care of yourself.”

“I love you, Jon. I’m…” Her breath hitched. “I’m glad that you’re my brother.”

Now it was his turn. “Jon,” He said. “Today…there are sacrifices that are going to have to be made. I need you to face them when the time comes. Can you do that?”

It was a vague request, but Jon trusted him and nodded his head. “I will. I promise.”

Bran shut his eyes as Jon came to hug him as well. He lifted his arms and hugged him back, squeezing his eyes shut as the memories crashed over him. Shooting bow and arrows in the courtyard, the sound of Jon and Robb laughing. How Arya used to fling food at Sansa across the dinner table, when their parents weren’t looking. Hugging Rickon, not knowing it would be the last time they saw each other. Jon’s lips on his forehead the day he left for the Wall, Bran unable to say goodbye. These weren’t the Three-Eyed Raven’s memories. They were Bran Stark’s.

“Jon?” He whispered, his voice hoarse. He felt like he might cry now – he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. “Father, he…he would be so proud of you.”

He felt his brother’s arms tighten around him. “You too. I love you, Bran.”

A tear slipped from his eye. “I love you too, Jon.” He suddenly felt guilty. _I should’ve said that more. But I was so lost in all the memories, I shut that part of me off…I should’ve told him I loved him more. I should’ve told him the day I saw him again._  

But Jon only pulled back and smiled wearily, tears in his eyes as well. “I know.”

Together they watched as Jon climbed onto Rhaegal’s back, their brother casting one last reluctant look at them before he took off. “Rhaegal, _soves_.” Bran watched as Jon disappeared from view.

He feared they would never see each other again.

~

Afterwards, Arya left them as well, exchanging quick hugs with him and Sansa before she went to join the army. Bran could see the sadness and anxiety in Sansa’s eyes as she watched her go. “She’ll be fine,” He found himself saying. “I know she will.”

In truth, it was impossible to know such things. With so many factors at play, the future was still uncertain and susceptible to change at any moment. In battles, everything was up in the air and every decision someone made had the chance to change their fate for better or worse. But his words seemed to offer Sansa some comfort, and for the moment that was enough.

“When will it begin?” She asked.

“Soon,” Bran answered. “I don’t know when exactly, but he’s coming. I can feel it.”

Sansa nodded and knelt before him, squeezing one of his hands gently in her own. “I’ll be here the whole time.”

Her face was the last thing Bran saw before his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and suddenly he was someplace else.

The pack of ravens took off with a caw. Bran adjusted to being in the bird’s body as the pack flew over Winterfell and then out towards the battlefield. He could go anywhere and see anything, but there were so many people and he needed to know where to look. He decided to check on Jon first and found him easily, Rhaegal and Drogon landing gracefully in the field to address the troops.

Jon stood tall and strong with Rhaegal behind him. Ghost had chased after him and was now prowling on the first lines, looking fierce. Daenerys was perched on Drogon’s back, gleaming in her red gown trimmed with black leather, and the protective layer of black armor she wore on top rippled like the scales of her dragon.

“I know this seems like an impossible task before us,” Jon was saying to their forces. “But we have one thing on our side that the Night King does not: we are fighting for life. Fighting for love, for family, for friendship, for our husbands and wives, for our neighbors, for our brothers and sisters, for our children and grandchildren. Will you fight for life with me?” An enthusiastic cry was his response.

Their army was massive: Northmen, women, children as young as nine or ten, Unsullied, Dothraki, archers, cavalry…But the Night King had more, and his army would only continue to grow the more of them fell. Bran looked around and wondered how many of these people would be dead before the day was done.

He found Arya, fierce and noble in her direwolf breastplate. Gendry was by her but they stood a good several inches apart, no sign of their newfound closeness, but now was not the time or the place for such things. The army was filled with familiar faces: Ser Davos, Lady Brienne, Ser Jaime, Tormund Giantsbane, the Hound, Jorah and Lyanna Mormont, Yohn Royce, Grey Worm, Podrick Payne, Alys Karstark, Robett Glover, Wyman Manderly…There were many people to watch during the fighting, but Bran could not allow himself to become overwhelmed.  

It began as a slow rumble at first. A cold breeze sweeping down from the far off mountain tops, the ground tremoring from the strength of an approaching army. And then there was the sound of a distant roar, cold as ice and loud as thunder, that had not come from Jon or Daenerys’s dragons.

“Prepare to attack!” Jon commanded the troops. Men and women lifted their spears, their axes or their hammers, some on horseback and others on foot. Before he climbed on Rhaegal, Jon moved towards Daenerys and she bent down to kiss him, long and hard. “Be safe.” He said to her, and she told him the same, before they both took off into the grey sky.

The Army of the Dead appeared from the mists, slowly at first, more and more undead soldiers emerging. “You heard your king!” Ser Davos yelled, spurring his horse. “Charge!”

The living surged forward with a great roar. Some of the men were screaming at the tops of their lungs or chanting the words of their houses as a battle cry. “Honed and Ready!” “Righteous in Wrath!” “We Remember!” But the most overpowering sound was the clash of steel.

In the madness he lost Arya, but he quickly found her again. His sister spun away from a wight’s blow and sliced his skull off at the neck with her sword. Gendry and the Hound were both with her. Gendry brought his warhammer down on a wight’s head, the pieces of dragonglass on the weapon causing the wight to disintegrate. The Hound had two coming on him at once and he punched one wight square in the face, then stabbed the other in the neck with a dragonglass weapon before going back to kill the first. 

Ser Davos and the cavalry charged into the fray and Ser Davos slashed his sword as he rode past, killing three with one long slice. Robett Glover, Lord of Deepwood Motte, had his horse killed under him and he fell to the ground, limply trying to lift himself back up again in vain. A wight was on top of him in an instant and the wight stabbed him in the throat, causing Glover to fall back onto the ground sputtering and dying.

Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime were making their way across the battlefield accompanied by Ser Bronn and Podrick. “Take that, fuckers!” Ser Bronn cried as he stabbed a wight in the chest.

Bran saw it before any of them did. The Walker was tall with ice white skin, a bald head, a white beard, and those unnaturally blue eyes. There had been four White Walker generals the last time they saw the Night King, but Arya killed one at Karhold, which meant this was one of the three who remained. Ser Jaime caught sight of the Walker as it approached them.

“Watch out!”

They ducked in time as the White Walker’s spear came at them. A pack of wights were slowly descending, following their commander, and Jaime and Bronn exchanged a look, then a nod. Bronn threw himself at the White Walker and wrapped his arms around its middle, sending both of them onto the ground. The Walker’s spear flew from its hands and across the icy ground, but the Walker still managed to grab Bronn by the shoulder and throw him off. Bronn landed several feet away and though he was still alive, his shoulder had now popped out of its socket. Bran swore he could see bone, and Bronn let out a long stream of curse words.

A pack of wights surrounded them. Brienne and Podrick attempted to hold them off while Ser Jaime charged at the Walker, brandishing Widow’s Wail. The Walker retrieved his fallen ice spear and threw it in Ser Jaime’s direction, knocking the sword out of his hand, though contact with the Valyrian steel made his spear split in two.

Ser Bronn tried to get up again, dragonglass weapon in hand, but his injured arm could not be moved without making him grunt in pain. A now weaponless Ser Jaime tried to help him to his feet. “Are you all right?”

The Walker slowly and methodically moved to pick up a shard of his spear and then walked towards the two men. Brienne and Podrick were still busy fighting off the wights, but when Pod turned his head and saw what was happening, he broke away and charged at the Walker. He drove his dragonglass weapon into the unsuspecting Walker’s back, and the Walker screamed an icy scream before dying. All of the wights around them disappeared as well.

A look of relief brightened Brienne’s face. “Pod, that was brilliant – ” But then she turned around and her face went ashen.

Only now did Bran notice the blood bubbling at Podrick’s torso. His hand was pressed against his stomach, but it did little to staunch the blood flow from the stab wound he must’ve taken from one of the wights. “My lady,” He gasped breathlessly, blood now dripping from the corner of his mouth. “I did it.” And then he collapsed face first onto the ground.

Brienne screamed.

Bran left the tragic scene in search of Jon, but then he decided to check on Lord Tyrion first, for Sansa’s sake. He flew back towards the battlements of Winterfell. Wights who had managed to pass the armies were charging at the castle. “Knock,” Lord Tyrion instructed the archers as another pack of wights approached. Some of them were trying to climb the walls, clawing at the battlements with bloody fingers. “Draw…loose!”

Arrows flew down from the battlements towards the wights. Theon loosed an arrow that stuck itself in a wight’s eye socket, the flaming arrowhead killing it instantly. But some of the wights had arrows of their own, forged of ice. They shot towards the battlements.

“Duck!” Lord Tyrion screamed, and most of the archers did so, but young Berena Locke reacted too slowly and an arrowhead struck her throat. She tumbled from the battlements, the wights swarming around her corpse.

Satisfied that Tyrion and Theon seemed to be handling themselves, Bran took off again. He soared over the armies, watching as men and wights alike dropped like flies. The Dothraki proved formidable, but they were not used to the North’s snowy terrain. He spotted another White Walker, cutting through Unsullied soldiers with his sword of ice. Across the throng from him, Ser Jorah Mormont and Grey Worm were taking down wights one by one, Ser Jorah with Heartsbane, Grey Worm with a spear.

Several of the Dothraki’s horses were dying, wights attacking their legs and making them collapse. The Dothraki continued on their feet, but their fighting style was compromised without their horses. As they worked their way through the Dothraki, the wights set their sights on another target and began to swarm Ser Jorah.

Ser Jorah was only one person and even with Heartsbane he could not fight off ten, twelve, fifteen wights at once. When Grey Worm saw him struggling, he began to stab some of the wights in the back with the dragonglass tip of his spear, but more and more descended to take their places. A determined look coming over his face, Grey Worm turned and began to walk in the other direction – towards the White Walker.

Bran realized immediately what he was doing: if he could kill the Walker, all the wights would fall too. As the White Walker continued to fell Unsullied, Grey Worm charged forward bravely and they clashed, his spear meeting the Walker’s ice blade. They clashed again and again while Ser Jorah desperately attempted to fend off wights. The White Walker pushed Grey Worm back, but the Unsullied leader persisted, continuing to match the Walker blow for blow even while walking backwards.

Suddenly Grey Worm tripped over a rock obscured by the snow and fell onto his back, his spear skidding from his hand. The Walker stood over him and brought down his blade, cutting through the side of Grey Worm’s neck. Before the Walker could cut him again, Grey Worm – though weakened from his rapidly increasing blood loss – reached for his spear and kicked the Walker in the leg to force him down. He drove his spear into the Walker’s shoulder and the Walker disintegrated, as well as the wights. Now free, Ser Jorah rushed to the felled commander’s side and pressed both hands over his wound, but Grey Worm had already lost enough blood to make his face drain of color, and red seeped across the snow as he shut his eyes…

Bran soared further upward. Finally, he caught a glimpse of the dragons up ahead, obscured by the cloudy, snowy morning. Daenerys flew Drogon downwards, holding onto him by the spikes on the back of his neck. “Drogon, _dracarys_.” Drogon flew over the wight army and spewed a great burst of fire. Wights caught flame and some of the frozen grass was also scorched. The air grew thick with smoke. Up ahead, Jon was circling on Rhaegal’s back, squinting through the clouded sky. From the distance, there was a low rumble and then Viserion appeared.

The undead dragon’s eyes were icy blue like that of the Walkers and he roared. Bran could see Daenerys’s mouth physically fall open in shock when she saw what had become of her son. Jon reared Rhaegal and flew up to meet the Night King on Viserion, and a second later Daenerys recovered herself to follow him. Viserion spit flame, but Drogon and Rhaegal quickly retaliated and red fire met blue. Daenerys flew Drogon upwards while Jon took Rhaegal lower so that the Night King could not come after them both at once.

Drogon gnashed his teeth at Viserion’s tail while Rhaegal rammed into his belly. Viserion thrashed in an attempt to shake them off, sending all three dragons careening towards the ground as their riders attempted to regain hold of them. Viserion broke free and flew lower, spewing blue fire at the human army and causing the air to smell like burning flesh. On the ground men and women screamed as they roasted alive.

Drogon and Rhaegal descended again and Rhaegal’s jaw locked around Viserion’s wing. Viserion screeched as part of his wing detached from his body and he butted Rhaegal, sending him and Jon flying back several feet. Daenerys rose up on Drogon and attacked the Night King and Viserion from above while Jon attempted to regain control of Rhaegal. Viserion spit fire at his once mother and Daenerys swerved to avoid the flames, a look of pure anguish on her face as she brought Drogon down on Viserion. Drogon crashed into Viserion’s skull and blew fire at his head. Viserion roared in anguish and Drogon clamped his jaw on Viserion’s face, ripping through scales with his teeth and spraying blood and flesh.

As Viserion tumbled towards the ground in his death throes, the Night King made one last offense and Viserion took a bite out of Drogon’s wing. Viserion’s wings beat at Dany and Drogon until all four of them were careening down together. Daenerys tried to fly back upwards but Drogon was too injured, unable to do anything but fall…

As Drogon fell wildly, Daenerys’s grip began to loosen and she slipped from Drogon’s back, dangling from the dragon with only the hand clenched around one of his neck spikes keeping her aloft. Viserion tumbled to the ground and Bran lost sight of the Night King, but as Drogon continued to thrash Daenerys’s hand slipped and suddenly she was falling…

Out of nowhere, Jon and Rhaegal swooped back in and caught Daenerys before she could hit the ground. Drogon fell and spewed fire at wights on the way down. Though he was alive, his wing was too injured for him to take off again. “Dany?” Jon said worriedly, holding onto Rhaegal with one hand and Daenerys with the other. She was still breathing, but her body was limp in his arms and her eyes were closed. Her left arm was twisted and looked broken, as she’d landed on it when she fell, and there was a cut bleeding on her head – she must’ve whacked it on Drogon on the way down, hence why she was now unconscious. Without a second thought, Jon turned Rhaegal around and flew back towards Winterfell.

When he landed Rhaegal in the courtyard, Sam and Gilly immediately rushed out to meet him. Melisandre was already standing on the parapet, watching and waiting. Jon disembarked, Daenerys passed out in his arms. “What happened?” Sam asked.

“She fell from Drogon,” Jon explained and he passed Daenerys off gently to Sam, while Gilly felt her for a heartbeat. “Viserion is dead, but the Night King is still continuing on foot. Take her to Maester Wolkan, please. I have to go back.”

“You can’t!” Gilly gasped. “It’s too dangerous!”

“I have to.” Jon insisted. “He’s killing my people. He tried to kill my wife. I don’t have a choice.”

“Wait.” The three turned their heads as Melisandre descended the parapets towards them. “Your Grace, I believe I may have something which could help you: a sacrifice.”

“If you are suggesting that I burn an innocent alive,” Jon objected. “I would _never_ – ”

“Not an innocent.” Melisandre inched closer to Jon so that they were almost chest to chest and she reached for Longclaw at his waist, pulling the sword from its sheath.

A look of horrified realization crossed Jon’s face. “I can’t.”

Melisandre laughed, but there was no humor behind it. “Don’t tell me you’ve grown fond of me, Jon Snow.”

“It’s true,” Sam added when he saw that Jon still looked conflicted. “The Nissa Nissa sacrifice. Bran knows too. It’s…” He gulped. “I think it may be the only way Jon.”

For a long moment, Jon was silent. “Take Daenerys to Wolkan.”

Sam and Gilly disappeared back inside Winterfell carrying Dany’s limp body, and Melisandre knelt down in the snow. She ripped the front of her red dress open, exposing her bosom. Jon lifted Longclaw and pressed its tip against her chest, his grey eyes full of resignation. “One last thing,” Melisandre said, and her hands moved to unfasten the ruby from her throat. The necklace fell to the ground and with it Melisandre’s youthful glamour, red lips and unblemished skin fading away to reveal wrinkles and thin grey hair. “I wish to meet my god in my true form.” She smiled. “Aim true Jon Snow, Warrior of Light and Son of Fire.”  

And when the sword pierced her chest, the courtyard reverberated with cries of ecstasy and pain, and the crackling of fire.

~

Bran was pulled back to reality by Sansa forcefully shaking him. “Bran, Bran!” His eyes rolled back and he saw her white face in front of him, cheeks frostbitten and blue eyes wide from fear. “You’ve been gone for over an hour, I was worried! If you’re gone for too long, you won’t be able to come back.”

“I’m fine.” He insisted. “I was watching Jon…Daenerys is hurt.”

“Is she all right?”

Bran swallowed. “I don’t know.” He answered honestly.

Sansa took a deep breath. “Arya?” She asked. “And…Lord Tyrion?”

Bran had known those would be the next two people she’d ask after. “Alive,” He said. “Both of them.” The words gave her as much assurance as they possibly could, given the circumstances.

“Please be safe, Bran.” Sansa’s voice was quiet and pleading.

Bran could not force himself to nod. “I have to go back and check on Arya. Let me go. I swear I’ll be right back.”

Reluctantly, Sansa nodded and that was all the permission he needed.

Back in the raven’s body, he searched the battlefield for a sign of his other sister. After several minutes he found her trapped in the middle of an ambush with Gendry and the Hound, snow and sweat in her hair and flecks of enemy blood and bone on her armor. When a wight tried to step towards her she stabbed it with Needle, slicing through the belly, and Gendry finished the job when he brought his hammer down on the wight’s skull. Besides them the Hound cut off a head, then an arm. One of the wights bit down on his shoulder and the Hound cursed before throwing it off. “Run!” He shouted at Arya and Gendry. “I’ll fend them off!”

Arya’s eyes blazed stubbornly and she killed a wight with a kick to the ribs and then a stab of her dagger. “We won’t leave you here!”

The Hound turned to her. “It wasn’t a request, girl! Go – _now_!” In his eyes was an emotion that Bran swore looked akin to compassion.

Still Arya looked unsure, but Gendry grabbed her hand. “Come on.” He insisted, and grudgingly Arya relented, the two of them fighting their way through the swarm and out the other side.

“Do you think he’ll be all right?” Arya asked Gendry breathlessly as they ran hand-in-hand. “Maybe…maybe we should go back…”

“Meaning it will have all been for nothing?” Gendry retorted. “The Night King’s lost his dragon. We have to go on.”

“What are we going to – ?” But Arya cut herself off mid-breath when they came face to face with a White Walker.

_The last White Walker_. Bran realized. One had been killed by Arya at Karhold, two more by Podrick and Grey Worm before they died, meaning only this final Walker and the Night King remained. The Walker lifted his spear and brought it down, but Arya and Gendry broke apart to deflect the blow, Arya dashing to the right and Gendry to the left. Arya’s Needle clashed against the Walker’s spear and she tried to stab him with her dagger, but the Walker grabbed her arm and pulled it backwards. Arya cried out as the Walker tried to force her onto her knees, bending her arm in such a way that Bran was expecting to hear the bone snap.

Gendry attacked the Walker from behind and knocked him onto the ground. The Walker released his grip on Arya and she fell backwards, rolling across the snow. Gendry tried to pin the Walker down and smacked it in the face with the butt of his hammer, causing blood and shattered teeth to spray the snow. The Walker’s ice blade had split into tiny pieces but he picked up one of the shards and brought it down. Gendry dodged but the Walker still managed to graze the left side of his chest and he grunted from the pain.

Arya got back to her feet and drove her dagger into one of the Walker’s legs just as Gendry slammed it in the face with his hammer. Together, the Valyrian steel and the dragonglass caused the Walker to die with a loud screech. Bleeding from where he’d been stabbed, Gendry’s knees buckled and Arya raced to him, though she lacked the strength to hold him up. His breathing had gone shallow and his eyes were fluttering shut. “Gendry, _no_.” Arya cried. “No, don’t you dare die on me…”

“Arya, go…find your brother and your sister…protect them…”

“I won’t leave you – ”

“Go, Arya! Please go!”

Arya stared at him for a moment, looking conflicted and heartbroken. After one last pleading look from Gendry, she reluctantly took off running.

Bran scanned the sky for Jon and saw Rhaegal return from Winterfell’s walls and landed in the midst of the battle. Ghost tore through the crowds to get to him, pouncing on a wight and ripping out its throat. Jon descended from his dragon, the sword in his hands now burning red as he struck down wights. He was going to meet the Night King on the ground.

Bran knew what he had to do.

He returned to his body just as there was rustling in the brush. Sansa jumped up, drew her sword, and charged – only for Arya to emerge and cry out in surprise when she saw her sister now had a blade pointed at her throat.

“Gods, Arya!” Sansa chastised, dropping her sword onto the ground. “I thought you were a wight! I could’ve killed you!”

“I’m sorry, I’ll remember to announce myself next time I’m making my way through the trees. ‘Hello it’s Arya, coming into the godswood, please don’t stab me Sansa.’ Is that better?”

Sansa rolled her eyes, but then pulled Arya in for a quick hug.

His sisters came back to kneel in front of his chair. Arya grabbed his hand and squeezed it.

“He’s not dead.” Bran told her quietly. “Gendry. Or at least not yet anyway.”

Sansa looked at Arya. “What happened to Gendry?”

Arya frowned. “He took a spear to the chest. Saving my life.” Sansa looked overwhelmed by the information.

“Now I have to go save Jon.” Bran told them. “I need to get back into the ravens…help him stop the Night King…”

Arya’s brow knitted in confusion. “How long have you been warged?”

“Hours,” Sansa said before he could answer. She turned to him. “Bran, you can’t. If you leave again…” She trailed off, not wanting to speak the words. “If you leave again, you may not be able to return to your body. There has to be another way.”

“This is the only way.” He hesitated and touched Sansa’s cheek. He tried to memorize the blue of her eyes, the snowflakes in her lashes, the thought of her smile. “Take care of yourself.”

Sansa’s breath hitched and it looked as if she may cry. “No.” Arya insisted stubbornly. “You can’t do this. You can’t sacrifice yourself for us, I…I won’t let you!”

Bran laughed hollowly. “You always were a stubborn one.” He took in her stormy grey eyes and her fierce expression. They were still the sisters he’d always adored, no matter how much time had passed since their childhoods here at Winterfell, and it pained him knowing soon this would all be nothing more than a memory. But he was resigned to his fate, and it would be done. He only wished he could speak to his brother once more, to tell him not to blame himself. “Tell Jon.” He said. “Tell Jon that it was worth it.”

“Bran – ” Sansa pleaded. “Bran, please don’t – ”

But Bran didn’t listen. “I’m sorry. Remember I love you both.” He told Sansa and Arya, and then before they could say anything, he left his body again.  

The raven flew out of the godswood, over Winterfell’s walls, and across the field. Men and women were bleeding, crying, dying, and the number of wights had significantly diminished with all the White Walkers dead, except for one – the most important one.

Jon cut through wights like carving a cake, before he was soon within feet of the Night King. The Night King turned and swiftly abandoned his current fight, walking determinedly towards Jon. In his hands he held an ice sword, and he and Jon came to blows.

The two kings – one living, one dead – circled each other as their weapons met again and again. Jon’s teeth were gritted and his strength was failing him after hours, but the Night King was eerily calm. His strength was unbelievable, his movements precise.

Bran flew down towards them and attacked the Night King, clawing at his face. He dragged the raven’s talons into the Night King’s eye sockets and then down his cheeks. The Night King fought, trying to throw him off, but Bran stuck the talons in deeper and heard the sounds of icy flesh being ripped from bones.

_Go Jon._ He willed silently. _Please, go now._

With a guttural scream, his brother gave this last charge everything he had in him and ran at the Night King, stabbing the flaming Longclaw into the Night King’s chest.

Everything seemed to stand still and yet move so fast all at once. Bran flew back and the Night King turned to Jon, a look of shock and horror on his frozen face as it was suddenly overcome by flames. The sound of ice cracking was loud enough to make the ground tremble and the Night King shattered into a thousand tiny pieces, blowing off on the wind as all the wights did so as well…

Exhausted, Jon let out shallow, ragged breaths and collapsed into the snow face first as he struggled to breathe.

As for Bran himself, suddenly he was overwhelmed by a sensation that he had never experienced before. As if he had transcended time and space, as if all the world was melting away around him, as if Bran Stark was gone and this newer omniscience had taken his place.  

_Yes,_ He thought. _Yes, I understand it now…I understand it all…_ All the pain and the hurt and the sorrow was gone, and all he felt was peace.

And then there was only flying, flying, flying…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Sansa, Brienne, Arya, Jon.


	13. The Pack Survives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa mourns a loss; Brienne witnesses a miracle; Arya makes a desperate plea; Jon worries he may lose everything.

**Sansa** :

He was dead.

She didn’t want to believe it. On her knees in the snow, Sansa placed her hands on Bran’s arms and shook him, gently at first and then with more force. “Bran,” Her voice was broken, pleading. “No. Please don’t go Bran, come back – ” Tears blurred her vision and she could barely speak now, but she refused to give up, refused to let herself dissolve into despair. “Oh gods, please Bran, _please_ don’t go – ”

“Sansa.” Arya’s voice was low and gentle and Sansa felt her sister’s hand on her shoulder, but she wouldn’t allow herself to look at her, because if she looked at Arya she knew there would be nothing to stop her from crying. “Sansa, look at me – ”

“No!” She shouted with all the force she could muster. “No, Bran, he – he’s our little brother, we can’t give up on him – Arya we _can’t_ – ”

“Sansa,” She heard Arya’s voice falter and she finally forced herself to turn around, finding tears running down her sister’s cheeks as she cried silently. “He’s gone.”

 She could not remember the last time she had watched Arya cry and that was what did it for her, the first sob forcing its way out of her throat. Sansa got to her feet and wrapped Arya into an embrace, burrowing her face into Arya’s hair as she wept openly.

He was dead.

Her little baby brother, dead to save them all.

And now, as she and Arya held each other, Sansa allowed herself to weep for all that she had lost: a father, a mother, a wolf, and now three of her brothers…

There was the sound of rustling among the trees followed by boots crunching in the snow, and Sansa reluctantly looked up to see Jon enter the godswood. One of his arms was dangling limply by his side, clearly injured, his hair frosted with ice and his armor stained with blood. Whether the blood was his, Sansa could not say. In his hand Longclaw was smoking and he dropped it into the snow, causing the metal to hiss, his grey eyes fixating on the empty shell that had once been Bran Stark. “Oh gods.”

Sansa broke away from Arya to throw herself into his arms, sobbing.

Jon hugged her back as best as he could with only one good arm and a moment later Arya came to join them, her arms wrapping around Jon’s waist, her body pressed up against Sansa’s. _Stop crying, you stupid girl._ Sansa chided herself silently. _You are a Stark, a wolf, you must be brave._ But the tears kept coming all the same.

“He said,” Arya began, her voice hoarse from the strain of her tears. “To tell you that it was worth it. That _you_ were worth it. And then just liked that he warged, even though he knew it would kill him. He sacrificed himself.”

“Oh gods,” Jon repeated, mostly to himself, still holding them both. Sansa wondered if he was in shock and hoped that he hadn’t lost too much blood.

She was cold and her throat was raw, and Sansa didn’t know when or if she would ever stop crying. “I told myself I would protect him,” She sobbed into Jon’s chest. “But I couldn’t.” _No one can protect anyone,_ She remembered saying once, and gods she felt so stupid for thinking it could be any different. “Why couldn’t it have been me?”

Jon’s arm tightened around her immediately and his lips found her forehead. “Don’t say that, Sans.” He whispered to her. “Gods, don’t ever say that.”

“Bran made his choice.” Arya added. She seemed to have regained control over herself and let go of Jon and Sansa to wipe furiously at her tear-stained cheeks. “There was nothing you could’ve done. There was nothing any of us could’ve done.”

“He saved us all.” Jon said, but his eyes weren’t on Sansa, they were staring across the godswood at Bran’s eternally frozen face. “He died a hero.”

They were both right, Sansa knew, but in the moment their words were little consolation to her. They’d already lost so much, why was it that any of them had to die at all? Why couldn’t there have been another way?

They stood there together for what felt like an eternity, together and yet also alone with their grief, Sansa crying until she felt there were no more tears left in her body.

Even after she’d stopped crying, her eyes felt swollen and raw, and Jon wrapped his good arm around her shoulders as they walked back towards Winterfell. Arya stood on Jon’s other side, carrying both Jon’s sword and her own, her eyes trained firmly on the ground as she walked. They’d left Bran’s body behind, Jon unable to lift it with his injured arm and the weight too much for Sansa and Arya, but Sansa had closed his eyes for the last time and Jon had covered the body with his cloak. Later they would go back to get him, and then they would put his body in the crypts, but Sansa wasn’t ready to think about that yet. She didn’t want to think about her little brother in the ground.

“We should make a statue for him,” Sansa blurted out, causing both Jon and Arya to look at her. “I know it’s not tradition, but I think he deserves one.” Her father had statues made for her uncle Brandon and her aunt Lyanna even though neither of them had ever ruled Winterfell, so it seemed only right that Bran should get one too.

Jon nodded. “You’re exactly right. We’ll have one made right away.”

The field was littered with bodies, beyond counting, and the air smelt like blood and smoke and death. As they approached the gates, she saw Lord Tyrion and Ser Jorah come out to greet them, and Sansa felt a spark of relief when she saw that Tyrion was alive and unharmed, but then she remembered that Bran was dead and the joy was gone.

Her eyes met Tyrion’s and that one look was enough to make his face fall. She didn’t have to say it – he already knew.

Ser Jorah squared his jaw. “Your Grace,” He said solemnly to Jon. “The maester is tending to Her Grace. You should go to her.”

“Is she all right?”

Jorah said nothing for a moment. “She’s alive.” His pause spoke volumes.

Jon nodded stiffly. “Take me to her.” He kissed both Sansa and Arya on the top of their heads, then followed Ser Jorah into the castle. Silently Sansa hoped that Daenerys would pull through – she did not want her family to suffer another loss.

Lord Tyrion approached them and tentatively took Sansa’s hand, clasping it between both of his. “Lady Stark, I am very sorry for your loss.”

Sansa sniffled. “Thank you, my lord. Your brother – ?”

“Is alive.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” She wasn’t lying when she said it either. At least one of them had not lost their brother today…

“I know this is little consolation,” Lord Tyrion continued. “But I am very thankful to see that you are alive and unharmed, my lady.”

Sansa nodded, and squeezed his hand. “And I am thankful to see you, my lord.”

Bran was gone, but she was still here. Arya was still here. Jon was still here. The pack survived.

For now, that had to be enough.

* * *

 **Brienne** :

He was dead.

The battle was over, the living had won, but still Brienne remained in place, knelt in the snow, Podrick’s body limp in her arms. “I’m so sorry,” She whispered even though she knew he could not hear, her words carried away on a northern wind. He had deserved more than this. He hadn’t deserved to die.

“Brienne.”

She looked up as Tormund Giantsbane approached her from behind, trying to keep her tears at bay. She did not have the energy to deal with the Wildling man’s antics right now. “What is it?” She wanted to snap at him, but the words came out sounding sad and broken.

Tormund knelt down beside her and wrapped an arm around her, but it wasn’t one of his bawdy come ons, just a comforting arm around her shoulder. Brienne saw there was no joviality in his eyes now, only remorse. “It’s over. You did everything you could.”

Brienne opened her mouth, then closed it. She wanted to weep. She said nothing, placing Podrick’s body down in the snow and allowing Tormund to help her to her feet. Brienne shut Podrick’s eyes and Tormund took off his fur cloak, draping it over the boy’s corpse. “He was the greatest squire who ever lived.” She said, her voice thick from impending tears.

“Aye.” Tormund agreed solemnly. “He was.” Brienne knew that Tormund didn’t know anything about what being a squire entailed, that it was a foreign concept to a member of the Free Folk, but in that moment she didn’t care, allowing him to be nice to her in her moment of grief. For once she was tired of being strong and she wanted to be comforted, just this once, so she allowed him to lead her back towards Winterfell.

As they walked she looked around, examining the corpses fallen across the battlefield, the blood bright red against the freshly fallen snow. Above them the clouds had parted and the sky had cleared, a grey sun beginning to peek out from behind the faraway mountaintops. She examined the faces of the dead men. There was Yohn Royce, the lord from the Vale, many Unsullied and Dothraki who had fallen where they stood. A knot formed in Brienne’s throat when she saw a woman sobbing over the corpse of a girl, and she recognized her as little Lysa Woolfield, one of the girls Arya had trained. She’d been only nine.

“Where is Ser Jaime?” Brienne blurted out. She realized she had not seen him in quite a while. After Podrick fell, she had lost Jaime and Ser Bronn in the ensuing chaos.

Tormund gave her a knowing smile. “Your lover boy’s going to be fine, just has a few superficial wounds.”

“He’s not my lover!” Brienne insisted, but Tormund only shook his head and chuckled to himself.

“No need to deny it. You love him, it’s clear to see. Now Lannister better treat you well, otherwise he’ll have to deal with me.”

Brienne looked away and resisted the urge to smile.

It was then that she spotted a man with thinning, sandy-colored hair knelt in the snow, hovering over the corpse of large man. He must have been tall in life, because his legs that were now splayed limp on the ground looked longer than Brienne’s own. “Lord of Light,” The kneeling man was saying, his hands on the dead man’s chest. “Cast your light upon this man, your servant. Bring him back from death and darkness. His flame has been extinguished, restore it! Lord of Light, cast your…”

Brienne stopped in her tracks. “Oh gods, I know who that is.” She broke away from Tormund to rush over and sure enough, her fears were immediately confirmed. An increasingly frantic Beric Dondarrion was repeating his chant to the Lord of Light, to seemingly no result. The man lying still and dead on the ground had a half-burnt face and a stab wound that had seemingly gone through his heart, blood oozing from his wound and down the breastplate of his armor.

“Come on Clegane!” Dondarrion yelled, frustrated. He grabbed the Hound by the shoulders and shook him. “You have to wake up, it’s not your time yet!”

Tears filled Brienne’s eyes again. She could hear Tormund walk up behind her and he placed his hands gently on her shoulders, but she would not look at him. Here she was, crying over the Hound of all people, the man she’d once nearly fought to the death with. And yet, despite their turbid history, over the past few weeks she’d begun to feel a begrudging respect for him. She’d seen that he cared, cared about Arya, even if he liked to pretend that he didn’t. Brienne thought there was much more to Sandor Clegane than they knew, and now he was dead.

“He’s gone, Dondarrion.” Tormund said. “Best give it up.”

“No!” The Lightning Lord persisted stubbornly. “No, it’s not his time to die. I…I saw it in my flames, he’s supposed to go to King’s Landing. He has to kill his brother, it’s the Lord’s will!”

“If it was your Lord’s will, then why is he dead right now?” Tormund asked matter-of-factly. “Come inside, we’ll count our dead later.”

Still, Beric refused to give up, pressing his hands more desperately against the Hound’s chest and murmuring his chant over and over again. “There’s nothing you can do.” Brienne added. She shook her head. “Maybe if Thoros was still alive…”

Suddenly, Beric froze.

“What is it?” Brienne asked. Was it something she said?

“My lady,” Even as Beric spoke to her, his eyes did not leave Clegane’s body. “You are exactly right.”

“Right about what?” Tormund asked. “Dondarrion, the cold is starting to go to your head…”

“No it’s not.” He stood up and walked over to Brienne, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “I am no Thoros of Myr, it’s true, but I think there is something I can do. They call it the kiss of life, or the last kiss.”

Brienne wrinkled her nose in confusion. “You think you can bring him back this way?”

“I know I can. But…” Beric trailed off, a melancholic look in his eyes. “I’ve died six times already. I do not have much life left in me. If I bring Clegane back…”

He didn’t finish his sentence but Brienne knew what he meant, and it seemed Tormund did too. “Sacrifice yourself?” He said. “Are you out of your mind?”

Beric smiled, but there was no joy behind it. “Possibly.” He looked at Brienne. “Can you tell the boy that I’m sorry I sold him? I thought it was the right thing to do at the time. And as for Arya…well, you can tell the girl it’s one more name off her list.”

“Are you certain this is what you want to do?” Brienne asked. As much as she wanted to see the Hound come back, this would mean Beric willingly giving up his life. It was not something to be taken lightly.

“I have never been so certain of anything. It is the Lord’s plan. I’m ready.”

His voice was firm, eyes resigned to his fate, and so Brienne forced herself to nod. “I’ll tell them. Goodbye, Lord Beric.”

“Goodbye, Lady Brienne.”

Tormund was not particularly good at emotional goodbyes, so he nodded his head and clamped a hand on Lord Beric’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, Beric Dondarrion.”

“As are you, Tormund Giantsbane.”

Dondarrion knelt down in the snow again, placing his hands on the Hound’s bleeding chest and closing his eyes for prayer. “Lord of Light, cast your light upon us all.” And then he brought the Hound’s lips to his.

At first it looked like nothing had happened and Brienne thought it hadn’t worked, but then she heard Tormund’s sharp intake of breath. When she looked again, she saw that blood was no longer dripping down the Hound’s armor and she watched in awe as one of his legs twitched, then moved. Beric Dondarrion smiled ever so slightly, and with that final smile he collapsed onto the ground.

The Hound opened his eyes.  

* * *

 **Arya** :

She wanted, more than anything, to go back to that morning.

This couldn’t be real. Maybe if she shut her eyes, she’d open them and realize that this was all a dream. She’d be back in the forge wrapped up in Gendry’s arms, warm in his embrace even though the fire had gone out hours ago, and Gendry would smile at her in that way that made her stomach flutter. Bran would still be alive and she’d be with Gendry, both of them happy and safe and whole.

But this was no dream. Her little brother was gone, her pregnant sister-in-law had just taken a tumble from a dragon that could possibly kill her, and in her mind she was replaying that moment over and over again of how she watched Gendry fall injured in the snow.  

Arya and Lord Tyrion saw Sansa up to her room. Her sister had stopped crying now and seemed to have gotten ahold of her emotions, though she said she wanted to lay down and try to sleep. “I’ll be all right,” She told Arya. “But it’s been an exhausting day, and I want to be alone for a while.” Lord Tyrion agreed, saying some rest could do them all some good, and excused himself to retire to his chambers. Arya kissed Sansa on both cheeks, saw her sister into bed, and closed the door on her way out.

Arya couldn’t sleep though. There were too many thoughts buzzing around her mind, and she knew sleep would bring her no peace, if she could even sleep to begin with. She could go check on Daenerys, but Jon was with her now and he probably wanted to be alone with his wife. She could go make sure that Bran’s body was being tended to properly, but Arya knew the sight of her brother’s corpse would likely only make her cry again.

No, what she needed was Gendry. She needed to look upon his face, to make sure he was all right.

And if he wasn’t all right…

She would not even allow herself to think that. She could _not_ lose Gendry the same day she had lost Bran. The thought was too horrible to her. _There is only one god, and his name is Death._ Arya silently told herself. _And what do we say to the god of death?_

_Not today._

She looked all over the castle and found no signs of Gendry. The casualties were being brought in on stretchers, the dead being piled in the courtyard to be identified and ultimately buried, the injured brought into the great hall to be treated. Arya walked up and down the great hall and didn’t see Gendry anywhere, and then with a heavy heart she looked at the dead bodies and luckily did not find him there either.

She walked back out onto the field of battle. Hundreds of men were still lying where they had fallen, and healers were treating those with the most urgent injuries on the field. As Arya walked around, she spotted Ser Davos but any relief she felt at seeing a familiar face waned when she saw that the Onion Knight was forlornly watching as a stretcher was carried towards Winterfell.

_Gendry._

“Ser Davos!” She called out as she walked towards him. “Gendry, is he…?” She could not bear to speak the word.

“He’s alive, m’lady.” Davos assured her, and Arya exhaled. “But I think you best go back inside.”

Arya’s eyes blazed stubbornly. She had not come this far just to be turned away. “I will see him.” She tried to brush past him, but Ser Davos wrapped his arms around her, holding her back.

“M’lady,” He began to say. “He is in a sorry state, I don’t think you should see him like this – ”

But Arya didn’t care about that. All she could think about was getting to Gendry, no matter what, and she would be damned if she let anything stop her. “Let go of me, Ser Davos.” She didn’t want to yell at the old man, but when he still refused to release her, she raised her voice. “Let go of me!”

“M’lady – ”

Arya didn’t even let him finish his sentence, instead bursting from his grip and racing across the field towards Gendry before Ser Davos could even blink. She practically catapulted herself at the stretcher and wrapped her arms around Gendry’s waist. He was not warm like he was this morning, just cold, but his chest was still rising and falling, proof that he still lived. “Oh gods Gendry.” For the first time Arya could see the hole in his chest, the Walker’s spear having ripped through his left breast, leaving a bloody mess of muscle and sinew. “Why did you have to go jump on top of a White Walker for me, you bloody idiot?”

One of the healers tentatively reached out to touch her shoulder. “M’lady, perhaps you should not see – ”

Arya only shrugged him off. “My sister is the lady of this castle and you cannot make me go if I don’t want to.” This seemed to shut them up. “Is he going to be all right?”

The healers looked warily at each other. “Hard to say,” The first one said. “He’s lost quite a lot of blood, enough to make him pass out. We can clean and tend to his wound, but we don’t know if he has enough strength left to wake up again. And if the wound gets infected…”

“He’s strong.” Arya wanted to sound confident in her assertion, but her voice faltered, and she ran a hand gently down Gendry’s cheek. “He’s one of the strongest people I know.”

“Even so, m’lady,” The second healer said in a soft voice. “You best prepare yourself for the worst.”

 _M’lady, they keep calling me that._ Arya wanted to laugh, but it came out like a choked sob. _Gendry’s the only one who’s allowed to call me m’lady._

“Can I have a moment with him?” She asked. “Before you take him?” The healers nodded and placed the stretcher down, saying they would leave her alone and come back in two minutes.

Arya took his hand in hers and found it cold and limp. “I swear Gendry, you stupid stubborn bull,” She whispered, hoping that some way or somehow he was able to hear what she was saying to him. “If you die without my permission, you won’t rest easy. I’ll chase you through all the seven hells…” She couldn’t get the teasing statement out without her eyes filling with tears, and Arya swallowed the knot rising in her throat. “I need you, Gendry. Please don’t leave me in this world without you. I can’t…I can’t lose…”

 _I can’t lose another person that I love._ Yes, Arya realized with a crushing certainty, she loved him. She had loved him for a very long time in fact. She didn’t remember when it had begun. And now that she’d finally realized that, there was a chance she might lose him forever. She pressed her lips lightly to his brow. “I love you, you bull-headed idiot. Please don’t die. Please come back to me.”

Soon after the healers returned and Arya reluctantly pulled away after one last squeeze of Gendry’s hand, allowing them to carry him inside. She was so lost in her own thoughts that she did not hear Ser Davos approach her from behind until his hand gently touched her shoulder. “M’lady…”

Arya said nothing, only turning around and collapsing against the older man’s chest, the tears flowing before she could stop them. After a moment’s hesitation, Ser Davos lifted his arms and wrapped them around her, running a hand up and down her back soothingly.

“I know Lady Arya, I know…”

And for the first time in a long time, Arya Stark let herself be comforted.

* * *

 **Jon** :

When he got up to their chambers, Daenerys had been placed down on the bed, Maester Wolkan there to look over her. Sam was in charge of stripping her armor from her, while Gilly sat by her bedside wiping the blood from her face with a damp cloth. On her other side, Missandei sat with Daenerys’s limp hand in her own, silent tears streaming down her face. Ghost bounded into the room ahead of Jon and positioned himself at the foot of the bed, whining softly as he sat vigil. His white fur was still matted with dirt and blood.

“How is she?” Jon asked. He rushed to Daenerys’s side and sat at the edge of the bed, running a hand gently across her cool forehead. Her skin was ghastly pale and waxy. She looked like death.

“She is alive, my king.” The maester said. “However, she seems to have been knocked unconscious in her fall and I do not know when she will wake up again.”

“But she will wake up again?” Ser Jorah asked. He remained in the doorway, watching but out of the way of the maester at work.

Maester Wolkan hesitated. “I believe she might, but right now it is impossible to ascertain.”

Jon could feel a lump rising in his throat but he forced it down, attempting to keep the tears at bay. He could feel them threatening to rise, pricking the backs of his eyes. “What about the baby?”

“Did she hit her stomach in the fall?”

“I don’t think so.” She’d landed on her back when Jon caught her, but it was impossible for him to know if she’d whacked her stomach on the way down.

“Well,” Wolkan sighed. “Babes are well-protected in their mother’s wombs, and they can withstand more than you may think. There have been no signs of blood in her smallclothes, and if Her Grace was going to miscarry I think it would have happened by now. That being said, she is only two, two and a half months gone at most, and the child has no chance of surviving outside her womb. If we lose her, we lose them both.”

Jon forced himself to nod. “Do whatever you can to save her.” He had already lost his brother today. He could not bear to lose the love of his life as well.

Gilly had finished cleaning Daenerys’s face and she stood up, but then she paused. “Jon, your shoulder…”

He glanced at it. Blood had seeped through his clothes and his shoulder bone was protruding. He’d popped it out of its socket during the fight, and his arm was overcome with a numbing tingle. At first it had hurt, but now he felt nothing at all. “Don’t worry about it.” He said. “It barely hurts.”

“You can’t move your arm.” Sam interjected. “Let Maester Wolkan look at it, you may have broken something…”

“I’m fine.” Jon insisted, more firmly this time. “Maester Wolkan can tend to me later. Right now I’d like a moment alone with my wife.”

The others looked at each other warily, and Ser Jorah cleared his throat. “The king is right,” He said. “Let’s give him a moment. Come.” Sam and Gilly silently agreed, Sam carrying off Daenerys’s armor to be cleaned and Gilly throwing the now bloody cloth back in the wash basin. Hesitatingly, Wolkan also left the room.

Missandei rose in her seat, but Jon waved the crying woman off. “You can stay, Missandei.” She looked devastated, and she was Dany’s best friend – if she were conscious, Daenerys would probably want her there. The foreign woman sat back down and Ser Jorah closed the door behind him, leaving the two of them alone with Dany.  

“Is there anything I can get you, Missandei?” Jon asked. “Water? Tea? A blanket?”

She shook her head. “No thank you, Your Grace. I am sorry I am crying…if anything I should be asking how you are…”

“Nonsense. You don’t need to apologize for caring about Daenerys.”

Missandei sniffled and nodded, rubbing Daenerys’s cold hand between her own. For a long moment she said nothing. “Grey Worm is dead.”

He had not known. “Oh Missandei, I’m…I’m so sorry.”

“I knew there was a chance this could happen,” Missandei said. “Last night, he made me promise not to cry for him. I do not know if that is a promise I can keep…”

“No one would blame you if you didn’t.” He didn’t know what else to say. When you lost someone you loved, no amount of kind words could make it better. Only time could heal those wounds. “I know how horrible it is to lose someone you love.”

Ygritte suddenly came to his mind. Jon had not thought about her in quite a while. Despite that, her death was something he was still not quite over, and he didn’t think he ever would be. She had been his first heartbreak, and he had loved her desperately even though he’d known they could never be together. When he closed his eyes, he could still see that night at Castle Black as vividly as if it was playing out before him: his eyes meeting hers, that little swell of joy he’d felt upon seeing her despite the circumstances, how the light went out of her eyes as she breathed her last in his arms…

He did not know if he could survive that kind of pain again. Losing Daenerys would be even worse than losing Ygritte: she was his wife, the mother of his unborn child, the person who he had promised to spend the rest of his life with. Selfishly he did not want their story to end here. They hadn’t had enough time. He could spend a thousand years by Daenerys’s side, and it still wouldn’t be enough to satisfy him. He was hers and she was his, and even though they’d only known each other less than a year, he already couldn’t fathom a life without her in it. How could he know joy in a world where she was gone? Had he ever truly known it before she came into his life?

“She has to wake up,” Missandei said, lifting Daenerys’s hand to her mouth and pressing her lips against it. “Daenerys, please come back to us.” Missandei was always courteous, always “Your Grace” this and “my queen” that, but right now she was not a servant or an advisor, she was just a friend.

“She’s strong.” Jon said, his voice strained from impending tears. He bent down to press his lips gently against Daenerys’s forehead, brushing her silver hair out of her face. Ghost got up from the bed and moved closer to Jon, rubbing his face against his master’s knee in what was meant to be a comforting fashion. “She’ll survive this. She’s Daenerys Stormborn – she makes miracles happen.” Jon did not know if his words were meant to comfort Missandei, himself, or both.

All he could do was hope and pray that Daenerys had one last miracle left in her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was shorter, but the next (and final) chapter is going to be a long one. It's not done yet and it is already over 20 pages in Microsoft Word. What I want to do with the last chapter is wrap up everyone's stories and bring closure, but I also want to leave some room for more. I have an idea for a sequel fanfic, about the same length as this one, but my concern is there is no way I could finish it before the final season comes out. If my sequel runs parallel with the final season, there will be overlap in storylines and either 1.) my plot lines will also happen in the final season as well, making them come across as unoriginal or 2.) my plot lines will be different from the final season, and therefore rendered false by canon. Let me know if a sequel is something you might be interested in anyway...
> 
> Next chapter: everyone.


	14. A Dream of Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys has a prophetic dream; Sansa addresses the Northerners; Arya thinks about what she wants for her future; Gendry is asked a question; Jaime pays his debts; Davos is given a gift; Tyrion muses on the past and the future; Theon receives a gift of hope; Brienne makes a promise; Sam decides about Dany's offer; Jon reflects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter is here and it's a doozy: 37 pages in Microsoft Word! Oh boy. I hope you guys enjoy this one. 
> 
> I have a sequel to this fic in the works, so this chapter should wrap up the current storylines and give you an idea of what's to come. In the sequel I want to do things slightly differently from how I think the show is going to do them, and I want to include some plots and characters that the show has abandoned. I'm hoping to roll out the first chapter of the sequel in early March, so keep your eyes out if that's something you might be interested in reading. Thanks so much and enjoy this last chapter! And if you want to drop a comment or a kudos, that's always appreciated.

**Daenerys** :

The dream was one of the most vivid she had ever had.

She was sitting in a garden somewhere, a place she did not recognize. Daenerys stood up and looked around, taking in the trees and flowers in full bloom: dragon's breath, goldencups, and smokeberry vines. She looked behind her and saw pale red stone towers in the distance.  _The Red Keep._ She realized. A thought came to her then and, startled, she reached down to touch her stomach, finding it flat and empty under the silken fabric of her dress. She wasn't pregnant anymore. For a moment terror seized her heart and Daenerys feared that it had happened again, that she had lost her and Jon's baby as she'd lost her Rhaego, when suddenly – 

“Mummy!”

Daenerys looked up. A little girl was skipping towards her, carrying roses in her small hands as she wove them into a crown. The roses were not blue like winter roses, but such a pale pink they were almost white – spring roses. The girl reached Daenerys now and smiled, exposing a missing front tooth. She looked about five years old, with bouncing, silver-blonde curls and purple eyes that were a shade darker than Daenerys's own. “Mummy? Are you listening?”

 _She's talking to me._ Daenerys realized.  _I'm Mummy._ “What is it, sweetling?” She said once she could find her voice. She could still scarcely believe what she was seeing. 

Her daughter extended the now completed flower crown towards her. “I made this for you, Mummy!”

Daenerys smiled and knelt down, allowing the girl to nestle the crown of flowers in her hair. “Thank you.”

From somewhere off in the distance, there were the shrieks of joyous laughter and the little girl grinned, grabbing Daenerys's hand. “Come, Mummy! Come see!”

They weaved through the sweet-smelling garden, past green trees and blooming shrubs, towards a small wooded area surrounded by alders, elms, and black cottonwood trees. The sounds of laughter and playful screams were getting louder. Daenerys followed the little girl, her daughter skipping along happily and humming as she dragged Daenerys along behind her. They burst past the trees and into a clearing, where a great oak tree covered in vines grew, the Blackwater Rush just beyond. There was a man who looked to be in his mid to late-twenties, dressed in grey and red with dark hair that curled about his ears.  _Jon._ Daenerys realized. He looked a few years older and he had a few more scars than he did now, but he was happy and smiling, and there was no doubt in Daenerys's mind that this was her beloved. She watched in confusion as Jon jumped back, waving a wooden sword.  _Jon has no use of a practice sword._ She thought, confused, but then she heard a peal of laughter that hadn't come from Jon. 

The little boy giggled as he waved about his own practice sword. Like his sister, he looked to be about five years old, and he had her same silver curls and dark purple eyes, but despite his coloring his face looked like Jon's. Speaking of Jon, he dropped his sword in order to scoop the boy into his arms and their son laughed harder. “Daddy, you're  _cheating_! Put me down, put me down!” 

“And who's going to stop me, huh?” Jon said, spinning the boy around and planting kisses on his cheek as their son laughed and squirmed. 

Their daughter broke away from Daenerys now. “Me, Daddy!” She ran towards her father and brother and grabbed onto Jon's legs, the children teaming up to knock him on the ground. Daenerys knew very well that if Jon were really trying, he could've easily stayed aloft, but instead he feigned defeat and the three of them collapsed onto the grass, rolling about and laughing. The sight was so beautiful and so heartwarming, Daenerys felt like she might start weeping.  _This is the life I'm to have, with my husband and my beautiful children...oh gods, how did I ever get so lucky?_

The dream ended as soon as it began and Daenerys bolted upright in bed, her breathing heavy as she got her bearings. She looked around and saw that she was in Winterfell again, in bed in her and Jon's chambers, covered by a fur as a fire blazed in the hearth. The memories came back to her in a rush, of the battle and how she'd fallen from Drogon's back. Panicked, she touched her stomach and found the soft swell was still there, proof of the life she still carried. Daenerys exhaled in relief. 

Immediately, Maester Wolkan rushed to her bedside. “Your Grace,” He breathed. “I am so glad to see you are awake.”

“How long was I asleep?”

“Three days, off and on. You would stir every once in a while, open your eyes and murmur in your sleep, but you now seem to have your wits about you. That is a good sign...”

The hand against her belly pressed closer. “My children...are my children all right?”

“Your dragons are healing well, Your Grace. There was a rip in Drogon's wing but it has been stitched, and in time we'll see if he will be able to fly again.”

Daenerys shook her head, remembering her dream. “That is not what I meant.”

“The baby, then? I cannot be certain, but in my opinion it seems that all is well. You have not bled or had any labor pains, and it does not seem like you landed on your stomach. At this point, I think the chance of a miscarriage is very low. You should consider yourself lucky, Your Grace – it seems your baby is perfectly healthy.”

“Twins.” Daenerys blurted out. It was the first time she'd said it out loud. “I'm having twins.”

The maester gave her a queer look. “Well, I suppose it is possible, Your Grace. Your rough morning sickness could be an indication of a twin pregnancy, but you are only two and a half moonturns along, so at this point it is impossible to ascertain – ”

“I do not think, I know.” Daenerys cut him off.  _I saw them._ She wanted to say, but she knew Wolkan would not believe her.  _My daughter carrying a crown of roses, my son laughing with his wooden sword...They were my children, my children with Jon, I know what I saw._

This time the man did not question her. “Well, there is something to be said about a mother's intuition. Congratulations again, Your Grace. Should I send for His Grace?”

“Please.” Wolkan left the room and Daenerys moved into a sitting position, pulling her tangled, blood caked hair out of her face. She saw now that her left wrists was bandaged – it must've broken her fall – but that was not her primary concern. With her good hand, she rubbed her stomach.  _Be strong, my little ones._  She silently willed the babes in her womb.  _You need to stay in there for seven more moonturns before you can come out and meet us. You are the blood of wolves and dragons, you can be brave..._  
  
It was only a few minutes later that the door burst open. It was Ghost who got to her first, the direwolf catapulting himself onto the bed in a blur of white fur, and Daenerys laughed as he began to lick every inch of her face. “Oh Ghost, I am so happy to see you too...”

“Ghost, down!” The wolf obeyed immediately at the sound of his master's voice, moving to lie at the foot of the bed, his head resting on his paws. Daenerys smiled when she saw Jon walk into the room and she opened her mouth to greet him, but before she could speak her husband had crossed the room in two strides to reach her and kissed her with three days’ worth of pent up passions. “Oh Daenerys, thank the gods...”

They kissed once, twice, three times before pulling away and Daenerys touched his shoulder, seeing that one of his arms was in a sling. “My love, you are hurt.”

“I dislocated my shoulder.” Jon said, brushing off her concern like it was nothing. He tenderly cupped her face. “Dany, I was so worried about you. I...” His voice broke. “I feared I was going to lose you.  _Both_  of you.”

Daenerys cut him off with a light kiss. “I am sorry I frightened you. Luckily we are all safe...” At her words, she saw his face falter. “What's wrong?”

Jon hesitated. “Perhaps I should not tell you any of this until you have fully recovered – ”

She would hear none of that. “ _Jon_. I am your wife and queen. Tell me, please.”

She saw him take a deep breath. “There were...some losses.” Jon began tentatively. “Brienne's squire Podrick Payne fell in the battle. The Hound did as well, but Beric Dondarrion revived him with something called the last kiss, at the expense of his own life. Gendry took a serious injury and has not yet woken up – he is still alive, but we do not know if he will ever regain consciousness. And then...I'm sorry Daenerys, but Grey Worm...”

He did not need to finish the sentence. Tears sprung to Dany's eyes immediately. She had begun to think that the leader of her Unsullied was invincible, with all the things that he had survived, but all men must die. Daenerys wished she had been with him in those moments, to have said goodbye and properly thanked him for all he'd done for her. “Has Missandei been informed?” She did not even want to think about how devastated her friend must've been. 

“Yes. She took it as well as could be expected. She wants to have a funeral for him, and I’ve agreed.”

“Tell her I will attend.”

Jon nodded. “I expected you’d say as much.”

Daenerys paused, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Who else? Who else died in battle?”

“Dany, there were thousands of them, we don’t even know how many. People you didn’t even know…”

She cut him off gently. “I will hear all the names.” They were her people, even if she hadn’t met some of them. They died for her, for Westeros, and she would remember them.

It took Jon almost an hour to tell her all the names he knew – he promised to find the rest out for her, even if he had to ask every living soul at Winterfell.  _The least I can do is commit their names to my memory._ Daenerys thought to herself.  _To remember their sacrifice, even if no one else will…_

Reaching the end of the list, Jon hesitated. “There’s one more…Dany, Bran’s gone.”

A chill washed over Daenerys at his words. “Bran?” She repeated and Jon nodded in confirmation. She could see that he was trying not to burst into tears and instinctively she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him closer. Immediately Jon burrowed into her embrace and she heard him emit a soft sob against her shoulder. “Oh Jon, I am so sorry. I know how much you loved him...”

She heard him gasp for breath as he attempted to regain his composure. “He...” Jon choked out. “He told Sansa and Arya, before he died...he told them to tell me that it was worth it. That _I_ was worth it.” 

Daenerys kissed the top of his head and ran her hand up and down his back, trying to comfort her husband as best as she could while he sniffled into the skin of her neck. “He loved you, you know. And he knew you loved him. He loved you too Jon, I could see it.”

A few moments later, Jon finished crying and he sat up again, but Daenerys did not let go of his hand. “I'm sorry.” He said. “I told myself not to cry...”

“Don't apologize.” Dany insisted immediately. “I'm your wife, Jon. I never want you to hold back your feelings around me.”

He nodded. “And I hope you know how grateful I am that you're all right, truly. You and my sisters and the child, you're all right...”

Daenerys paused, biting her lip. She wondered if she should tell me about the dream she had, or if he would simply brush it off as a foolish fever hallucination. “Actually, there's something I ought to tell you about that...”

Jon looked at her confusedly. “What?”

“It's nothing bad.” Daenerys added quickly, not wanting to worry him any further. “While I was asleep, I had a dream – I dreamt that we had twins. A girl and a boy. I know it sounds crazy...” 

But her husband cut her off with a gentle kiss on the lips. “It's not crazy.” He said, brushing her hair out of her face. “You are no ordinary woman, Daenerys Stormborn, remember? Your dreams come true.”

Daenerys didn't know if she'd ever loved anyone or anything as much as she loved Jon Snow in that instant. 

“So, what were they like?” Jon asked, looking eager. “Our daughter and our son?”

Daenerys could feel herself grinning just at the thought.  _Our daughter and our son, I love the sound of that._ “They were about four or five, I think. The girl looked like me – ”

“Thank the gods.” Jon interjected, causing Daenerys to roll her eyes. 

“ – the boy had my coloring too, but your face I think. You were teaching him swordplay, and our daughter was picking flowers to make me a crown of roses. It was springtime again. Oh Jon, it was wonderful. We all looked so happy.”

Her husband smiled and kissed her forehead. “We  _will_  be happy. I love you, Dany.” Her heart filling with love for him, Daenerys embraced him again as Jon pressed a series of delicate kisses on her face, then her neck, and finally her lips. 

Even if things were bleak right now, spring was coming. And there was not a doubt in her mind that they were going to have so much happiness...

* * *

 **Sansa** :

Ghost lay sprawled out on the floor in front of the fire, his head resting on his front legs, and she bent down to gently scratch the sleeping direwolf behind the ears. In the great hall, most of the smallfolk had been cleared out now that it was safe to return to their homes, but some had stayed behind and were now crammed into every space they could find, wanting to watch her meeting with the lords.

Everyone was there: Lyanna Mormont, Alys Karstark, Wyman Manderly, Cley Cerwyn, Eddara Tallhart. With Robett Glover slain in the battle, his teenage son Gawen was the new Lord of Deepwood Motte. The Hornwoods were dead, leaving only the late lord’s bastard snow, Larence Snow. “My lords,” Sansa said. “My ladies, we had a great victory three days ago and have reclaimed the North, from the Night King and his army which wished us harm. However, despite our accomplishments, there is still much to be done.”

“My lady,” said Wyman Manderly. “Allow me to speak for all of us when I say that we mourn the loss of your brother Lord Brandon with you.” Others nodded or vocalized their agreement.

“Thank you, Lord Manderly.” Sansa said. She had already wept over Bran for countless nights, and now it was time to be strong. The loss of a brother was an ache that would never truly heal, but she would endure it, as she had endured much pain before in her life. She could not be porcelain when she needed to be steel. “My brother made the ultimate sacrifice for the North. We now must move forward and keep his sacrifice in our hearts from this day on, so that it may not have been in vain.”

The lords nodded. There were some murmurings of “here, here”.

“Gawen Glover,” Sansa said. “Larence Snow, would you come forth?”  

The two men – though in truth neither was more than eighteen – came forward and unsheathed their swords, kneeling before her. “Lady Stark.” Gawen Glover said, as Larence Snow said “My lady.”

“I am deeply sorry for the losses of your family,” Sansa said. “But take solace in the fact that they died bravely. It is my hope that you both shall continue your fathers’ noble service to the North as the new heads of your houses.”

Larence Snow bent his head. “You are a kind and generous lady, Lady Stark.”

“We swear to serve you as your faithful and loyal bannermen.” Gawen Glover added. “Now and always, my lady.”

“I know you both will.” She said. “May your minds be strong, and your hearts be true.” Satisfied, the two lords retook their places and Sansa proceeded to the next matter of business. “Tormund Giantsbane.” The Free Folk man came forward and some of the Northerners gave him sideways glances. They were still wary of the wildlings – it seemed even a battle for the future of humanity could not undo many years of animosity. “I thank the Free Folk clans for your loyal service to my brother, King Jon. Now that the war against the Night King is done, I understand that some of your men and women may wish to return to your homes beyond the Wall. Anyone who wants to go shall be allowed, and no one will stop them.”

“The Free Folk have no true homes,” Tormund responded. “For years we have travelled beyond the Wall, never staying in one place in fear of the Walkers. Now that threat is gone. I cannot speak for all of us, but I can say there is nothing beyond the Wall that I am aching to return to.”

“In that case, let me present another option. I know the ways of the Free Folk are very different from ours, however I believe there is a compromise to be made. I wish to give you the Dreadfort.” The castle had remained untouched since she’d killed Ramsay, no Boltons remaining on this earth, and Sansa certainly did not want her dead husband’s seat. If she never had to return there, she would be a happy woman. “You may all do with it as you like: make it your home, knock it down and build a new, it matters not to me. The land is yours. In return, I ask that the Free Folk shall swear themselves to House Stark, to give us your aid in battle when called upon. In accordance with your customs, you may however choose your own leader. I hear that the Free Folk have elected you to lead them, Tormund Giantsbane?”

“Aye,” Tormund said. “That is correct.”

“Very well. Tormund Giantsbane, I shall name you Lord of the Dreadfort and Protector of the Free Folk. In the event of your death, the Free Folk shall choose a new leader to succeed you, instead of the titles being hereditary. That is, if you accept my terms.”

Tormund cracked a grin. “I will pledge my weapons to you and your brother, red-haired lady. You are a lucky one – kissed by fire, as am I.”

Sansa could not help but smile too. “Next order of business,” She said as the Free Folk man rejoined his people. “I am sure you all have heard that we lost Lord Yohn Royce in the battle as well.” The man had been a pain in her neck with his constant dissent towards the Targaryens, but he had helped them win the Battle of the Bastards, and he’d held more sway over the lords of the Vale than anyone else. He’d been a valuable ally. “We honor his noble sacrifice. However, there is also the issue about what will happen to the Knights of the Vale, as Lord Royce was their commander. I intend to send a letter to my cousin Robin Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, asking for the Knights of the Vale to remain with our cause when King Jon and Queen Daenerys march south to reclaim the Iron Throne.” Sansa had not seen Robin in almost two years. He would be sixteen now, ruling the Vale on his own now that Petyr Baelish was dead and he was legally a man. Sansa could only hope that his temperament had improved away from the influence of his late mother or Littlefinger – or, if not, that she would be able to persuade him.  

“With all due respect, my lady,” Cley Cerwyn piped up. “Why should we concern ourselves with the Iron Throne? Let Cersei Lannister have the damned thing if she wants. Lannister, Targaryen, Baratheon – who sits the Iron Throne is no matter to us. We have defeated the Night King, let us return to our homes and stay out of southern politics. Too many lives have already been lost.”

“Better yet,” said Lyessa Flint, the Lady of Widow’s Watch. “Let the North be a free and independent kingdom. We already had two Kings in the North, why not a Queen?”

Chatter broke out throughout the hall. Some were agreeing with Lady Flint, while others voiced their disapproval. “My lords, my ladies!” Sansa proclaimed. She raised her voice and everyone halted, turning back to look at her. “Look at yourselves! A year ago, all of you gathered here and named my brother Jon your king. He is still your king now, and his wife your lawful queen. Should we abandon Jon now because we fear going to war again? The mere suggestion is shameful. We named Jon our king and he shall be our king, our only king, from this day until the day he dies. I will not let you put a crown on my head just because you are feeling cowardly. What would you do if one day you tired of me? Try to make my sister Arya your new queen? Here in the North we are supposed to honor our vows.”

The men and women throughout the room who had been calling for her to be Queen in the North moments ago could not meet her eyes now, looking down in shame.

“As for the Iron Throne,” Sansa continued. “Cersei Lannister is not fit to be Queen of Westeros. I know her, my lords and my ladies, better than anyone else here. She is selfish, spiteful – and smart. She must be disposed, for the safety of the North and all the realm. Cersei will never support our interests, but King Jon and Queen Daenerys shall. They’ve already proven that by leading us to victory against the Night King. The North is my home, and I will always act in its best interests – and that includes defending the North against Cersei.”

There was a long pause, and then slowly Lyanna Mormont stood up. “Lady Stark is right.” She said. “We pledged our swords to Jon Snow, for perpetuity. His and Her Grace have done nothing but help and protect us. That’s what a ruler should do. As for Cersei Lannister, she conspired to throw our late lord Ned Stark in prison and then stood idly by as he was executed. Who are we if we let such crimes go unpunished?”

The other Northerners nodded in agreement and mumbled amongst themselves.

Now, Lyanna turned towards Sansa. “You are Ned Stark’s eldest living child. You are the rightful heir of House Stark, and until the end of my days I shall follow you.” She drew her dragonglass sword from its sheath. “The Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North!”

Almost immediately, Wyman Manderly stepped forward. “I served Ned Stark for many years, and now I intend to serve his daughter. Sansa Stark protected the North when the Long Night was upon us, took all men and women great or small into her home, and saw them fed and clothed. She is as kind as she is strong. She is the Red Wolf.” He knelt before her, drawing his sword. “To the Lady of Winterfell and the Wardeness of the North!”

All around the room, men and women drew their swords, their axes, or their spears, and fell to their knees.

“The Lady of Winterfell!”

“The Wardeness of the North!”

“To Sansa Stark, the Red Wolf!”

* * *

 **Arya** :

“Should we say a few words for the poor dead cunt?”

Arya shrugged a single shoulder as the Hound continued to dig a hole deep enough for a body, his shovel finally bypassing the snow and hitting hard earth. At Arya’s feet, the body of Beric Dondarrion laid still, with no hopes for a resurrection. “I don’t know the funeral rites for followers of R’hllor.”

The Hound grunted as he tossed dirt to the side. “Well, how about this then: to Beric Dondarrion. An old, fire-loving cunt who took seven tries to finally die.” He paused, and he looked almost thoughtful. “And, you know…thanks.”

Silently, Arya looked down at the dead man’s face. Once, the thought of his face had filled her with a murderous rage, and now she felt nothing. They’d all been on her list, Beric and Thoros and Melisandre too, and once there was nothing she wanted more than to see them dead. Now, though, she pitied them – the Red Woman not so much, but Beric and Thoros had helped Jon and Beric died to save Sandor. Maybe they had been trying to do right in the world after all, as misguided as they were.

Once the hole was deep enough, the Hound grabbed Beric’s body by the head and Arya took his feet. Unceremoniously, they dumped him in and Arya crossed his arms over his chest, his grave just one of the thousands littering the battlefield. Maybe they could at least give him a marker, something to let those who would pass by in the future know who he was and what he died for.

They walked back towards Winterfell together, the Hound’s shovel dragging across the ground. “So,” Arya asked. “What are you going to do now?”

“What do you think?” the Hound said gruffly. “I’m going to kill my fucking brother, and then I’m going to find an inn or a brothel, drink enough ale to make me forget my name, and eat all the damn chickens in King’s Landing.”

The laughter burst out of Arya before she could remind herself that Gendry still might die, and Bran _was_ dead, and she shouldn’t be laughing. “Sounds like a plan.”

The Hound looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “We could go on the road again. With that sword and dagger of yours, imagine how many Lannister guards you could take down.”

“Maybe. I’ll do whatever Jon asks of me.”

“Maybe?” the Hound repeated. “What happened to wanting to kill the fucking queen?”

“Well she deserves to die. Preferably slowly.” Instinctively, Arya fingered Needle’s hilt, still attached at her hip. “Do you think we’ll feel better after she’s dead?”

“I always feel a little less shitty when there’s one less crazy bitch in the world, so yes.”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant do you think we’ll feel…at peace?”   

The Hound shrugged. “Is there such a thing as peace for killers?” His last word caused Arya to stop walking, and it took the Hound several feet to realize she’d fallen behind. “Come on now girl, the sun’s going down. You planning on staying out here and playing with your wolf friends when they come to eat the unclaimed bodies?”

“I’m being serious!” She groaned in frustration, and the Hound said nothing, his mouth twisted into a wry knot. “I don’t like killing people, you know? I wanted vengeance, sure, and I feel this…this…this sick sort of satisfaction when I take out someone who deserves it. But I don’t want to kill for the sake of killing. I killed people so I could get back here and now that I am back here…I just want to be happy again. I watched Bran lose who he was. I don’t want that to happen to me too. I don’t want to become heartless.”

The Hound stared at her silently for a moment. “You’re in love with the fucking smith, aren’t you?”

He closed the distance between them and Arya turned her head away, forcing a scoff. “What? Of course not…”

“Look at me, wolf bitch.” When she didn’t listen, he grabbed her roughly by the chin and forcefully pointed her face in his direction. “If you were heartless, you would’ve stayed in Braavos slitting people’s throats for money. Instead, you came back here. Came back to your brothers, came back to your sister, and your precious smith too. You don’t want to kill people anymore? Then fine, do whatever you fucking want. You want to go run off into the wilderness and live in trees and hunt squirrels? Fine. You want to compete in tourneys and fight jousts and beat up men twice your size? Fine. You want to become a perfumed lady with your pretty dresses and your handsome knights in songs? Well, that would be frankly disappointing, but your choice all the same.”

Arya snorted. “If I ever start wearing dresses and fawning over handsome knights, then you have my permission to stick a knife through my eye.”

“Good. Would be a shame to see you put down your sword after all the work you’ve done.”

“Are you saying I’m a good swordswoman?”

“I’m just saying it would have been a bloody waste of time, is all.”

“If you say so.”  

They continued side by side, the only sound the snow crunching under their boots and the shovel dragging across the ground, until the Hound cleared his throat. “When your lover boy wakes up, you better let him know that if he ever does anything to hurt you, I won’t feel bad about killing him.”

Arya smirked. “No need. If he breaks my heart, I’ll break his limbs.”

She saw a smile cross the Hound’s face. “Good girl.”

Grey smoke rose from Winterfell’s chimney and curled in the air as they approached the castle. Outside the gates it still smelt like death, like burning flesh and blood stained snow. In the courtyard, Brienne was waiting for them. “Where have you two been?”

The Hound threw the shovel down on the ground. “Seven fucking hells. Can’t two people bury a body in peace around here?”

Brienne rolled her eyes, but then turned to Arya. “My lady, I was sent to find you.”

“If it is my brother and sister tell them I need a minute to – ” Before she could finish, Lady Brienne cut her off.

“It’s about Gendry. He’s awake.”

* * *

 **Gendry** :

He was sitting up in bed, a handmaid changing the bandages on his chest, when Arya burst into his sickroom like a raging storm. “You stupid, bull-headed bastard!”

The young handmaid’s eyes widened – she was a stranger to Arya’s outbursts – and she looked so frightened her hands began to shake. “Will you excuse us for a moment, please?” Gendry asked her, undeterred. The girl did not need to be told twice.

Once they were alone, Gendry turned to look at Arya, whose grey eyes were filled with fury. “Now,” Gendry said. “Why am I a stupid, bull-headed bastard this time?”

“Because I didn’t ask you to save my life!”

He laughed before he could stop himself, causing Arya to glare. “Seven hells! Most people would say ‘thank you’ when someone takes an ice spear in the chest for them, instead I get yelled at!”

Arya crossed her arms and huffed indignantly, but he could see her eyes soften, ever so slightly. “Well I didn’t need you to do that. I was doing fine on my own.”

“Really? It sure seemed like you did.” His wound started to throb again and he paused to rub it. “I’m sorry, if that makes you feel better.”

Arya shook her head. She couldn’t look at him, staring down at her boots. “I just…I can’t believe you thought it was a smart idea to jump on top of a White Walker for me! What kind of idiot does something like that? You could’ve died, Gendry. You could’ve died and it would’ve been my fault!”

 _Oh._ He silently realized. _So that’s what this is really about…_ “Arya, look at me.” When she didn’t listen, he repeated it, firmer this time. “Arya, look at me!” There was no more anger in her grey eyes, only shame, and something which looked a lot like fear. “It wouldn’t have been your fault. It was my choice, okay? Mine and mine alone…” Gendry trailed off and paused for a moment, unsure of how to broach this subject. He laughed softly to himself. “And I knew I had to come back. A certain someone told me she’d chase me throughout all the seven hells if I died without her permission.”

As soon as the words came out, he saw Arya’s face drain of color. “You heard me?”

“Every word.” As he laid unconscious, surrounded by the blurry haze of pain, it was the sound of Arya’s voice cutting through that darkness which had given him something to hold onto, something worth living for. Even as his body felt like giving up, his mind had told him he need to fight one more time, because somewhere out there was a beautiful, stubborn, fearless girl who loved him back. “Arya I…I love you too.”

He saw what he swore were tears fill her grey eyes. “You do?” He’d never heard her voice sound so small.

Gendry nodded. “I think I’ve loved you since before I knew what that word meant.”

For a long moment Arya just stood there staring at him, and Gendry couldn’t tell if she was about to start weeping or flee the room. That nervousness and insecurity creeped back up again. _Perhaps she’s finally realized that this was a mistake._ He worried. _That she was caught up in the emotions of the moment, that she just didn’t want to die a maid, and really she deserves someone better than a bloody lowborn, stupid bastard…_

He gulped. “Arya? Are you…do you need me to call a maester back in here or…?”

Before he could finish, Arya caught him off guard when she plopped down on the bed and threw her arms around his torso, burrowing her face into his chest. “Shut up.”

He shut up.

For several moments they laid there without speaking, her head on the right side of his chest so she did not touch his wound, and impulsively he ran his fingers through her dark hair. He had not been this close to her since the forge and he inhaled her scent, holding Arya as close to him as he possibly could. He wanted to grab her face and kiss her, but for the moment he just held her, enjoying the feeling of having her in his arms again.

Arya’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Gendry,” She spoke his name soft and slow. “Have you ever thought about asking to be legitimized?”

The question surprised him. He supposed it should’ve crossed his mind, but in truth it never had. Since he met Jon and Daenerys, he was too focused on the war, on making weapons, on making sure Arya survived even if he could not. He never thought about the life he would have if he made it out of this war alive. “I’d be a shit lord. All I’m good for is swinging a hammer and making swords, that’s all…”

Abruptly, Arya sat up and slapped him on his good shoulder. “You really are so stupid. Gendry, you would make a good lord!”

“Arya, I’m lowborn. I can’t even read or write, how can I rule?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “A man can learn to read and write, just ask Ser Davos. But what a man cannot learn is how to be a good person like you are. There are plenty of highborn men who don’t have a heart half as big as yours. That’s not something a man can learn, Gendry. It’s something he has to be born with. It’s something _you_ were born with.”

He thought for a moment about what she said. Gendry knew what it was like to be a commoner, to live not knowing where you would sleep tonight or when you would eat your next meal. _If I were lord of the Stormlands, I could take care of them. I wouldn’t let my people starve while I drink and eat and whore. I could do right by them._

Another thought came to him. “What about us?”

“What do you mean?”

“If I were legitimized, I would have to go to Storm’s End. I would be there and you would be here. We’d never see each other.” Maybe it was selfish of him, but he did not want to be apart from Arya. He’d already almost lost her so many times, and they’d only just found each other again. Her place was here, and he would do anything to stay with her. A lordship, a castle, he didn’t need any of it. He just wanted Arya.  

Speaking of Arya, she gave him a pointed look, like there was something obvious he was missing. “But if you were a lord,” She said slowly. “You could ask Jon and Daenerys for permission to take a wife.”

A wife? He was almost angry at her for even suggesting such a thing. _Does she really think so low of me, that she believes some noble perfumed lady could make me forget her?_ No, Arya had his heart, and no other woman could ever make him happy. “Arya, I don’t want a wife! I won’t leave you, not now, not ever. I…I can stay here and work as the smith for Winterfell! I’ll make you all the swords you want, and I’ll serve you sister when she becomes Wardeness of the North, I’ll…” He tried to get up, but Arya shoved him back down, and he was still too weak to fight her off. She straddled his lap and her face was dangerously close to his. Gods, he wanted to kiss her…  

“You’re not listening to me! _You could ask Jon and Daenerys to take a wife._ And after all you’ve done, they’ll surely let you have any woman you want. Including one of the she-wolves of Winterfell.”

“But why would I marry Sans–” Arya raised an eyebrow at him and Gendry cut himself off mid-sentence as the realization hit him like a smack in the face. “Oh.”

Any annoyance in Arya’s eyes was gone now as she looked at him. “I’m not going to start cross-stitching or calling you ‘my lord’. But when I thought I lost you, Gendry, I felt as if _I_ was the one who got stabbed. For so long, vengeance has kept me alive, kept me going when I felt I had nothing else to live for, and yes there is still Cersei to deal with but…” She shook her head, a look of fierce determination in her eyes. “Revenge isn’t the most important thing in the world. I want a life with my family. I want a life with _you_. And I know that the future is uncertain, so I want us to be together in every way we can be. From this day, until the end of our days. I _love you_ , stupid. I’m in love with you, I always have been.”

His chest hurt, but not because of his injury. “You would really be my wife?”

“Yes – and I want you to be my husband.” She was smiling at him. Arya’s smiles were rare, and beautiful. _I will spend the rest of my life trying to make her smile like that._ “So what do you say, Gendry Baratheon? Will you marry me?”

Arya could not even pause to take a breath before Gendry’s hand curled around the back of her neck, pulling her down on top of him to kiss her deeply. “Yes. With all of my heart, Arya Stark, yes.”

* * *

 **Jaime** :

“Where the fuck are we going?”

“Patience,” Jaime chided Bronn as they rode slowly up the crest of a hill. They could not move at their usual pace since Bronn’s arm was still in a sling and Tyrion was not as proficient at riding. “Is that any way to talk to the men who are giving you your payment?”

Bronn scoffed. “You know, I thought Lannisters paid their debts. You’ve been promising me for years that you’ll give me twice what Cersei offered me, and have I seen any of it? No. If I were charging interest, I’d say you owe me three wives and three castles by now.”

Jaime and Tyrion exchanged a conspiratorial look. “Three I cannot do,” Tyrion said. “But two? Certainly.”

Bronn looked confused. “What?”

They reached the top of the hill, and Jaime nodded to the sight laid out in front of them. “Take a look.”

In front of them laid the mossy banks of the Green Fork and two stone castles, one on each side. Each castle had high curtain walls, deep moats, and a barbican and portcullis. Near the eastern castle there was even an apple orchard and a cornfield. Now that the old occupants were dead, Jaime thought it would make a nice castle for a jumped-up lord. “Come on,” He said, spurring his horse. “Let’s go meet your bride.”

Inside the Twins’s great hall, the Frey girls were all lined up to receive them. After all of their male relatives had been slaughtered, they’d been living in the castle alone for several months. Jaime could see Bronn eyeing the girls with uncertainty – most of the women were not attractive, Jaime silently agreed. One of the late Lord Walder’s daughters had so many pimples on her face that you could barely see her skin, and another had such a large belly that she looked pregnant (she wasn’t). Though Shirei Frey, Lord Walder’s youngest, had grown into a fine young maiden with thick dark hair and a shy smile, and the intended women that Jaime and Tyrion had selected together would certainly prove good enough for Bronn.

Two young women, about Sansa Stark’s age or slightly older, stepped forward. They were identical, red-headed twins, and though pimply in youth their complexion had cleared up. They were both tall and thin too, albeit small-breasted. Though not great beauties, they were certainly the best offer that an upstart sellsword like Bronn was ever going to get.

“Allow me to introduce Serra – ” The first girl curtsied. “And Sarra Frey.” The second girl reciprocated the gesture. “Granddaughters of the late Lord Walder. Ladies, this is Ser Bronn of the Blackwater.”

“My lord.” The two girls said in unison, both of them kissing Bronn’s hand. Sarra leaned over to her sister and loudly whispered: “He’s handsomer than I expected.” Serra blushed and Jaime saw that Bronn’s hesitation had begun to wane at their compliment.

“My ladies,” He said. “It is a pleasure to meet you. You are both very fine.” Serra blushed harder and Sarra grinned wickedly.

“One of them is to be your wife,” Tyrion told Bronn. “You can pick whichever you choose. As for the other…well, I suppose she’ll be sent somewhere far off to broker peace with a knight of a great house. The Reach, or Dorne maybe. Yes, Dorne could be beneficial…”

At his words, the two sisters went pale and exchanged a look. “My…my lord,” Serra Frey said timidly to Bronn. “Is there…well, is there no way you could take us both?”

Bronn looked at Tyrion with wide, eager eyes, as if he could not believe what he was hearing, and Jaime had to resist the urge to laugh. Bronn looked like a little boy who had a sweet dangled in his face.

“We do not want to be apart, my lord.” Sarra added. “My sister and I do everything together – even sleeping.” She raised one of her reddish eyebrows and her sister gave her a look at the less than subtle innuendo.

Bronn looked ready to accept, but Tyrion sucked in a breath. “Well, I don’t know…according to the laws of the land, a man can only have one true wife. You wouldn’t have Ser Bronn break the law, would you?” He feigned reluctance, but Jaime knew that this had secretly been his plan all along. The rumors of Serra and Sarra Frey’s… _inclinations_ were well known.

“Oh, no one has to know!” Serra insisted. “No one except us here! Sarra and I are identical, if you only take one of us in public at a time…well, how could anyone know the difference?”

Bronn looked more excited than Jaime had seen him in a long time, but he forced himself to shrug and feign indifference. “Well, if you two insist…” Jaime rolled his eyes as the Frey twins began to pepper Bronn’s hand with kisses, and he excused himself from the room. He had other matters of business to attend to.  

He found her upstairs in the nursery, sitting in a rocking chair and humming softly to the boy in her lap in an attempt to get him down for a nap. The child looked about four years old now and he had a full head of reddish brown hair. “Lady Tully.”

Roslin Tully looked up and the color drained from her face. “Ser Jaime.” She jumped to her feet and pulled the boy against her chest, holding him as tightly as she could.

 _She thinks I’m going to take him from her._ Jaime realized. _She thinks I mean her harm._ He supposed he could not blame her for that, so he maintained a respectable distance. “Your son is handsome as his father. What’s his name?”

The young woman gulped. “I’ve called him Axel, ser. After the first Lord of Riverrun, whose father was also named Edmure…” She trailed off. “Is my husband dead?”

Jaime shook his head. “No, dear lady, he is very much alive at Riverrun. I could take you to him, if you’d like.”

The boy looked up at his mother. “Are we going to see Father, Mummy?”

Lady Roslin hesitated, kissing the top of her son’s head. “Is this some kind of trick?”

“My lady, I know you have every reason to doubt me, but I assure you this is no trick. I’m not fighting for my sister anymore. Jon and Daenerys Targaryen are the rightful rulers of Westeros, and soon we’ll be marching south to displace Cersei – when we do, we’ll take Riverrun back and your husband will no longer be a prisoner in his own home. The castle will be reinstated to him, as well as his title.”

He could see that Roslin’s resolve was beginning to waver, but her brown eyes flitted to her son. “What’s the catch?” She asked Jaime.

“No catch, Lady Tully. All your husband has to do is agree to fight for our side in the war to come.” He extended his arm to her. “The servants have been instructed to pack your things. You’ll come with me and my brother back to Winterfell, and then eventually on to Riverrun. Once we’ve freed Lord Tully, you’ll stay safely at the castle with your boy while we go on to King’s Landing. Is that agreeable to you?”

Two hours later they rode back to Winterfell without Bronn, but with Roslin Tully and her son.

* * *

 **Davos** :

He was sitting in his bedchamber in front of the fireplace when the king knocked on his door. “Ser Davos,” Jon said. “Do you mind if I speak with you for a moment?”

Davos sat up straighter in his chair. “Of course, Your Grace.” He noticed that when Jon entered the room, he did not sit down, indicating this would be a short conversation. “Is everything all right? How is Her Grace?”

“Quite all right.” Jon said, but Davos suspected there was more to the story. “She’s awake and moving about again, though I told her to take it easy for a few days. She’s very stubborn, so I don’t know if she’ll listen to me.”

Davos chuckled. “You have a very strong-willed wife, Your Grace.”

Jon cracked a smile. “Indeed. Gendry is awake too, I’ve heard. Have you gone to see him?”

“Only for a moment. I wanted to let him rest, and regardless Lady Arya was there to keep him company…” Gendry had rarely taken his eyes off of Arya during his entire conversation with Davos, and Davos had never seen Lady Arya smile so much, so he had not wanted to intrude. He was glad that the two of them seemed to have taken his advice. _The way they look at each other, it reminds me of when Marya and I were that age…_ The thought of his wife made him feel sad and lonely all over again.

“You see, Ser Davos,” Jon said, causing the older man to snap out of his reverie. “Daenerys and I were talking recently about what will happen once we retake King’s Landing, and who it is that we will want by our side when we do. Both Queen Daenerys and I agreed that we trust and respect you, and want you to have a place in our new Westeros. Ser Davos, I…” Jon paused. “I hope you know how thankful I am to have had you by my side for these past few years. I would, quite literally, not be alive without you. I’ve…well, I’ve come to look up to you, and you’ve been like a father to me.”

At this, Davos could not help but smile. He truly had come to love Jon Snow, not only as a lord loved his king, but as a father loved a son. The young man meant a lot to Davos, and words could not describe how proud he was of him. “It was my honor, Your Grace. All of it.”

“That being said,” Jon continued. “Daenerys and I would like to offer you a position on our small council. We would name you Master of Ships – that is, if you accept.”

The offer was generous and Davos knew it would be an honor to serve the king and queen in such a way. It was strange and exciting to think that a man who had been born in the slums of King’s Landing and made his reputation as a smuggler could now become a councilor to the Targaryen king and queen, one of their trusted advisors. But still, Davos had his reservations. “You honor me, Your Grace.” He said. “But I must confess…I am an old man, Your Grace, who has already been away from his family for far too long. I fear that I have neglected my responsibilities as a father and a husband. While it would be an honor to serve you, I feel that after this war is over I must go home.”

Jon looked at him and smiled knowingly. “I understand completely, Ser Davos. Which is why that if you accept my offer, you would not be required to live at court. We would only ask that you come to King’s Landing twice a year for council meetings – though, of course, you and your family would be welcome at court any time you like.”

It was a kind and fair offer. “Well then,” Davos said. “I wholeheartedly accept, Your Grace.”

Jon beamed and shook his hand. “I am glad to hear it. I hope you don’t mind that I have a gift for my new Master of Ships – I was hoping it would arrive before the battle, but it was delayed.”  

Davos’s brow furrowed. _A gift? What kind of gift?_ “Your Grace, you did not need to – ”

“Father!”

Davos stopped talking. He had not heard those voices in seven years. He turned and saw that the two young men standing in the open doorway were very different from the eight and five year old boys he had left behind at Cape Wrath, but he would recognize those eyes and those smiles anywhere. “Stannis? Steffon?”

Davos could not get to his feet fast enough as his two sons ran towards him, practically catapulting themselves at their father. Tears sprang to Davos’s eyes immediately as he hugged them. “Look at you two, you’ve gotten so big…”

“We missed you, Father.”

Davos looked up again and saw that Devan was now standing in the doorway. Now a strapping young man of eighteen, his brown hair was longer and thicker than when Davos’s saw him last, and his peach fuzz had even begun to turn into a proper beard.

And, next to him, was Marya.

Her once brown hair was shot with white and pulled in a tight bun, her round face lined with wrinkles around her mouth and eyes, but she was smiling at him with that same old smile, and Davos thought his wife was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life.

He turned to Jon, intending to thank him, but the king only nodded at Davos and quietly slipped out of the room to give the newly reunited family their privacy.

The door shut behind Jon and Davos reluctantly pulled away from Stannis and Steffon to embrace Devan and Marya. “How did you get here?” He asked, his brain still trying to process that this was really happening, that his family was really here. “You hadn’t been answering my letters…”

“We didn’t answer your letters,” Marya explained. “Because we weren’t at Cape Wrath to receive them. The king had already written to us – such a kind man, he wanted us to come to Winterfell because he thought you had been missing us. Unfortunately the snow in the south made it a longer journey than we had anticipated.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Davos said immediately. “All that matters is that you’re here now.”

“Are you _really_ a king’s councilor, Father?” Steffon asked excitedly. “And is it true that the queen has dragons?”

Davos chuckled. “Yes and yes. I think the queen might even let you see her dragons, if you’d like.” Steffon looked elated at the prospect.

Marya leaned over and gently kissed Davos on the lips. It was the first time they had kissed in far too long, and it filled his body with a pleasant warmth. “I’m still cross with you,” She whispered. “But I am glad to see you again. I missed you a great deal.”

Davos kissed her again. “I know and I understand. But I am just so happy that we are together again.” His wife nodded and smiled.

They would have time to talk later.

They had all the time in the world.

* * *

 **Tyrion** :

The fire crackled as the serving girl added another log to the hearth. “That will be all for tonight,” Tyrion told her, leaning back in his chair. The girl nodded and wished him goodnight before quietly slipping out of the warm, dark room.

He took a sip of hot spiced wine and watched the flames dance in the hearth. It was a cold night, but luckily he had the fire to keep him warm. The cloak Sansa had made for him was draped across his lap, acting like a blanket in this instance. He traced his finger up and down the red lion she’d stitched on the leather straps, the lion standing rampant. _I am Lannister,_ Tyrion thought drily. _Hear me roar…_

There was a time when he had wanted to become the head of his house, but now the thought of returning to Casterly Rock made him feel a sudden rush of loneliness. _Tyrion Lannister,_ _Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West…_ The thought of the titles sounded so wrong now. He was proud of his noble lineage, but the halls of Casterly Rock had always been cold and unforgiving to him. There were no memories of his time there to inspire warm feelings in his heart. Jaime had been the only thing from his childhood that was good, the rest had been a nightmare…

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft rapping at the door. “Come in!” He called, expecting it to be the servant coming to check up on him.

“I hope I am not bothering you, my lord.”

Tyrion immediately sat up straighter at the sound of Sansa’s voice, and when he turned he saw her standing hesitantly in the open doorway. “Not at all, my lady. Come in if you’d like, have a seat.” Sansa closed the door behind her and came inside, sitting down in the chair adjacent to Tyrion’s. “Warm yourself by the fire.” He told her, while pouring her a flagon of hot wine.

“Thank you.” She said, taking the cup in both hands and raising it to her lips. “It shall be a long and cold winter, I think.”

“Aye, it seems that way. Well, if the Wardeness of the North ever gets tired of snow, she is more than welcome down south.”

Sansa smiled slightly. “Thank you, my lord. I suppose you’ll be returning to Casterly Rock after the war is done. What is it like? I’ve never been there.”

Tyrion grimaced and took another sip of wine. “It’s…big.” He began vaguely. “Carved out of a great stone rock, looming high above the cliffs and the sea. It is three times the height of the Wall – or well, the part of the Wall that the Night King did not melt down a large section of. Years of Lannister treasures are inside, from golden armor to rare gilded books. ‘Grand’ is the best word to describe it.”

“It sounds lovely.” Sansa said genuinely. “Perhaps someday I may see it for myself.”  

“Yes indeed…” He trailed off. Winterfell was cold and damp and plainly decorated, and outside your windows at night you could hear the harsh northern winds and the howling of wolves. Yet this place, possessing not even half of Casterly Rock’s jewels and splendor, had begun to feel more like a home to him than anywhere else he’d ever lived. At Winterfell, he’d made amends with his brother. He’d served his queen and his king here. People here were kind to him and treated him with respect. And Winterfell had Sansa, with her thoughtful nature and kind smiles and incredible intelligence. If he went to Casterly Rock, he would not be able to talk her every day. At Casterly Rock he would be alone and that wasn’t what home was to him – not anymore. “I don’t think I can be Lord of Casterly Rock.”

Though he had been pondering this thought for quite a while, it was the first time the words had tumbled from his lips, and he saw Sansa nearly choke on her wine as her blue eyes went wide from shock. “What do you mean? Tyrion, Casterly Rock belongs to you. You should take it.”

“It doesn’t belong to me, it never has…”

Sansa put down her flagon and her eyes were overcome by steely determination. “If you’re doubting yourself because of your father,” She said. “Forget about him. He was cruel and unfair. You may be half the size of other men, but you have twice as much intelligence as them, and twice as much heart. I say you could become the greatest Lord of Casterly Rock there ever was.”

 _Oh, and how good she is for thinking that._ “You are too kind, sweet lady. But it is not that I think I don’t deserve Casterly Rock, it’s that I don’t want it.”

“Don’t want it?” Sansa repeated. “Why not? It’s your right.”

Tyrion was silent for a long moment. How could he even begin to tell her this? “My lady, Winterfell has become more of a home to me in these past two weeks than Casterly Rock ever was in almost forty years.”

Sansa blushed as red as her hair, and then turned away – but Tyrion saw the corners of her lips turn up into a smile. “I see…well, what do you propose to do about the Westerlands then?”

“I’ll give them to Jaime.”

Sansa laughed, but when she saw that Tyrion was serious the laughter died. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

“But Ser Jaime is pledged to the Kingsguard. He can hold no lands, take no wife, father no children.”

“Well, he’s already fathered a child – four of them, in fact.” Tyrion said, thinking of dead Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen, and the child currently nestled in Cersei’s womb. “And Tommen dismissed Jaime from the Kingsguard. Anyway, surely Daenerys doesn’t want the Kingslayer in charge of protecting her…”

Sansa was silent for a long moment. “Well, I suppose if Jon and Daenerys show that they’re willing to be merciful to those who once served Cersei, perhaps more of the Westerners will abandon her cause. But I don’t know if they will ever agree…”

“This is what I want, and I hope Daenerys trusts me enough by now to respect my wishes…” He paused. “And I was hoping that you would put a good word in for Jaime. I know Jon values your opinion, and he will listen to what you have to say.”

Sansa hesitated, taking another sip of wine. “I’ll talk to him,” She promised. “Though I cannot guarantee he will do as I ask…”

“That is all I want.” Tyrion assured her. “Thank you.”

The fire crackled, and in the low glow he could see an uncertain look cross Sansa’s face. “What will you do then?” She asked. “After the war? If you will not go back to Casterly Rock…”

“I’ll stay in King’s Landing I suppose, as I am the Hand. I always dreamed of starting a vineyard, so perhaps I’ll ask the king and queen to plant some grapes.”

“I wonder if you could grow grapes in the North,” Sansa mused. “We do not have the climate for it, but we do have a greenhouse. I bet you could plant a few vines among the other crops, though they may not blossom every year…”

 _And why do you care if I could grow grapes in the North or not, Lady Stark?_ Tyrion wanted to ask, but he did not.

Sansa glanced at him. “Perhaps I could come to visit you in King’s Landing.”

Tyrion was genuinely surprised by that. After all she had suffered in that city, he would not have blamed her if she never wished to return. “You would really come back?”

“Of course. It would be worth it, to spend time with you…” She shook her head and looked away. “And Jon and Daenerys want me to be on the small council – Mistress of Coin. I’d have to come to the city two or three times a year anyway.”

He chuckled. “Mistress of Coin? Don’t they know you are terrible with figures?”

Sansa laughed sweetly. “Yes my lord, when I was younger I did not have the patience for learning sums. But while I may be a slow learner, I learn. I know quite a few things now that I did not know when I was a naïve child.”

“Yes Lady Stark, I daresay you do.”

The fire was reflecting in Sansa’s blue eyes. “Perhaps you could visit me at Winterfell too,” She proposed. “Grow some grapes, make me some wine. I’d very much enjoy your company.”

His body was filled with a warmth that did not come from the fire. “Yes,” Tyrion said. “I think I’d like that.” Sansa smiled at him and reached over to gently squeeze his hand in her own.

And they sat there for quite a while longer, staring at the fire, her hand placed gently on top of his.

* * *

 **Theon** :

“How are you planning to eat that carrot without a tongue?”

From across the table, Yara looked up and glared at him, before flinging the aforementioned vegetable across the table. It hit Theon square in the face and he wiped it off his cheek.

“Very nice.”

Yara smirked to herself and cut up another carrot into many tiny pieces, before putting one in her mouth. She had to move it back and forth a few times before she could swallow.

They continued supper in silence for several moments and Theon leaned back in his chair, taking another sip of wine. “You know,” He said, his voice softening. “I didn’t think I could do it – shoot a bow and arrow with my other hand, I mean. But you knew I could, didn’t you?”

Yara smiled sheepishly in response.

Reluctantly, Theon smiled too. “Thank you. I don’t think I ever said this to you, but…I don’t know how I would’ve gotten through any of this without you.”

No more carrots were thrown at him that night.

The plates had been cleared just as there was a knock at the door. “Come in!” Theon called, sitting up, and Maester Wolkan stuck his head in.

“Pardon me, Your Graces – but Prince Theon, there is someone here to see you.”

Theon furrowed his brow, wondering who it was that could possibly want to speak to him. “Who?”

“A boy, I do not know his name. He’s come all the way from Oldtown.”

Now Theon was even more confused. “Why does he want to see me?”

“I’m not entirely sure, but he says he has an urgent letter for you. Should I send him in?”

Theon looked to Yara, who only shrugged, seeming as perplexed as he was. “Yes.” He told Wolkan. “I’ll speak to him.”

Wolkan left the room and when the door opened again, a boy stepped in. He was clearly lowborn from his crude woolen tunic and ill-fitting breeches, and he was young. Theon guessed he was probably about five or six years of age. The boy bowed his head. “Your Graces.”

Theon waved his hand dismissively. “No need for that. Why have you come so far from home, boy?”

“I have no home, Your Grace.” The boy said. His face was pale and round, with full cheeks and a soft chin, complemented by blue-green eyes. He was tall for his age and skinny, with a full head of brown curls that fell across his forehead. “My mother has gone to be with the gods.”

 _So he is alone in this world._ “I’m sorry for your loss. But I still don’t understand – why come here? Why not stay in Oldtown, find training at the Citadel perhaps?” Theon looked the boy up and down from his mess of curls to his worn shoes. Something about him was familiar, but he could not put his finger on it. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Asher Flowers, Your Grace. I should have no family name in truth, but my mother called me Flowers. I do not know why, only noble bastards have those names, and I am lowborn. My grandfather was a captain, but he threw my mother out when he found out she was pregnant. So then she worked in a tavern, until the redspots. I healed, but…” The boy paused for a moment, surely thinking of his dead mother, before looking up at Theon again. “She told me to take what little coin we had, Your Grace, and buy passage on a ship so I could find Theon of House Greyjoy.” He reached into his tunic and pulled out a scroll. “She had the maester write this before she died and told me to give it to you – but I can’t read, so I don’t know what it says.”

Theon took the scroll warily. “What would a captain’s daughter from the Reach want with a prince of the Iron Islands?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Yara’s hand began squeezing his shoulder. Until now she had been staring at the boy but now she looked at Theon with wide, desperate eyes. “What is it?” He asked her.

Yara grabbed his hand and frantically began to trace a sentence on his palm. It took a few tries for Theon to understand the message because of how fast she was scribbling it.

_HE LOOKS LIKE YOU_

Theon frowned. “What do you mean he – ?” He cut himself off mid-sentence and suddenly it was like all the breath had left his lungs. _No._ He thought to himself. _It’s not possible. It’s not…_ But he couldn’t get the image out of his mind, remembering the girl he’d laid with six years ago, when he was going back to the Iron Islands. Her curly hair, her childlike smile, her plump, trusting face…

He unfurled the letter.

_You told me there is great honor in raising a king’s bastard. For five years I’ve done my best, but I’m dying now. I heard you were in the North, and I hope you can watch over him. You’re his last chance. I know there is some good in you._

When Theon looked up again, he felt as if he’d been dumped in ice water. He gulped, his throat dry. “Tell me, boy – _Asher_ …do you remember the name of your grandfather’s ship?”

The boy thought for a long moment. “I only saw it once, from the harbor. Mother pointed to it and said: ‘I met your father on that ship.’ It was a long name and I could not say it, something with an ‘M’…” 

“The Myraham?”

Asher’s immediately eyes lit up and he grinned. _He has his mother’s smile,_ Theon thought. _But those eyes? Gods, those eyes are mine._ “That’s it! Your Grace, how did you know?”

Suddenly, Theon felt as if he could weep. He looked over at Yara and saw that her eyes had filled with tears, and she wiped at them with her sleeve. Part of him still couldn’t believe it, but in his heart he knew it to be true. This was something he never thought possible. _But it’s not only possible,_ He thought. _It’s happened. It’s real._

Asher was staring at them both confusedly now, surely wondering why the Queen and Prince of the Iron Islands looked like they were about to cry like little girls. “Your Graces? Is everything all right?”

 _Yes,_ He wanted to say. _Yes, everything is perfect._ For the first time in a long time, Theon smiled. He stood up and crossed the room to kneel before Asher, taking his hand. “My boy,” He said gently. “There’s something very important I need to tell you.”

* * *

 **Brienne** :

The courtyard was lined with corpses.

They had been placed down in the snow, at least ten rows of fifty bodies a piece, and then there were the others who had already been buried or were waiting to be identified. There were so many bodies that they didn’t even know what to do with them all. “I suppose we’ll have to send ravens to the families.” Lady Sansa had said. “If they want their loved ones’ bodies, they are free to come claim them. As for those who didn’t have families…well, we better start digging.”

All of Winterfell’s servants had been ordered to begin constructing a graveyard. They did not have enough time to make any kinds of headstones or markers, and many of the fallen could not even be identified. _A mass grave,_ Brienne thought with sadness as she walked among the dead. She looked down at their frozen faces, thinking about how she didn’t even know the names of many of these men, women and even children.

As she approached the body she’d specifically sought out to visit, she found that someone was already there, a red-haired girl hunched over with the hood of her cloak pulled tightly around her face. Brienne thought she heard sniffling and she cleared her throat in order to make her presence known. “My lady?”

Alys Karstark looked up and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Lady Brienne. I’m so sorry, I do not know why I am crying…”

Brienne pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her cloak and handed it to the teenage girl. “You do not need to apologize.”

Alys nodded and blew her nose. “We did not know each other for a very long time but…he was such a nice person. So kind to me. I…” Her voice broke. “What will happen to him now?”

“His family has said that they will bury him.” The current Lord Payne had only been a distant cousin of Pod’s, but he’d responded to Lady Sansa’s letter saying he wanted the body buried in the Westerlands. “He will get to go home again.”

Alys Karstark nodded and ran a hand gently down Podrick’s cheek. The skin was drained of color, but his face otherwise unmarred. The freezing cold was keeping the bodies well-preserved. “He almost looks like he is sleeping…” Alys said, and Brienne had to swallow to prevent herself from crying. “I liked him.” Alys confessed quietly. “As…as more than a friend. I should’ve told him. I should’ve told him how I felt.”  

Now the tears rushed to Brienne’s eyes uninhibited. “I think he knew.” 

They both stared silently at the body for a moment before Lady Alys rose to her feet. She smiled feebly at Brienne. “I am glad he had you, my lady, in his final moments. I’m sure that brought him peace.”

Brienne nodded. “I hope so.”

Alys walked back inside the castle, but Brienne wanted to stay for a moment longer. She looked down at Podrick’s body, snowflakes stuck in his mussed hair, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes closed. She had been the one who shut them, after he’d breathed his last.

She did not know how long she had been standing there when a voice cut into her thoughts. “What are you thinking about?”

She did not look up at the sound of Jaime’s voice but could hear the snow crunching under his boots as he walked towards her. “How tired I am of people dying in my arms.” There was the sound of Jaime chuckling under his breath and Brienne looked at him, eyes flashing angrily. “What? Do you have some joke about Renly?”

Jaime shook his head. He was close enough that she could reach out and touch him if she wanted. His face was scruffy from several days of not shaving, he was dressed all in blacks and greys, and he was not smiling now. “No. I just thought…about how I always wanted to die in the arms of the woman I love.” 

“I thought you were done with Cersei.”

A pause. “Cersei is not who I’m thinking of.”

Their eyes met and Brienne felt a flare of hope against her better judgment. Now it was her turn to laugh. “You can’t keep doing this.”

Jaime’s brows creased in confusion. “Doing what?”

“Saying things like that!” Jaime laughed, but Brienne turned to face him and crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s not funny! You can’t keep just…playing with my feelings! Giving me hope that maybe, someday you could – ”

She was cut off when Jaime closed the distance between them and kissed her on the lips.

For a moment she could not believe he had just done that and once her shock had worn off, she realized – embarrassingly – that she didn’t know what she was doing. Where were her hands supposed to go? Should she open her mouth or keep it closed? Should her eyes be open or not?

And still, despite her nerves, the kiss was over all too soon. Jaime pulled back and smiled at her. Almost instantly, she wanted to kiss him again. “Sorry,” Jaime said. “I’ve been wanting to do that for quite a while.”

Brienne opened her mouth, then closed it. She probably looked like a fish gaping at him like that. “I…I…gods…”

Jaime’s smile morphed into a grin. “Have I made you speechless, wench?”

Their moment was interrupted by the appearance of a young squire, shy-looking and pink-cheeked, and Jaime backed away from her so that there was once again a respectable distance between them. “Pardon me, my lady, ser,” The squire said. “But do you know where I might find Lady Stark? I have a message for her, and I’ve looked everywhere.”

Brienne took a deep breath to regain her composure. “She should be in the great hall with the lords. What kind of message is this?”

The squire hesitated, his nervous eyes flitting from Brienne to Jaime and back again. “It’s a message from King’s Landing, my lady. The queen is dead.”

Immediately, Brienne froze. _The queen dead?_ She looked at Jaime and that smirk was gone. His expression did not betray any of his emotions, his jaw set, his eyes on the ground. “Queen Cersei?” He asked.

“Yes, ser.”

“How did she…?” Jaime’s voice broke, and Brienne didn’t know if she should hug him or take his hand or do something to comfort him. She held no love for Cersei Lannister, but she knew that this had to be a complicated issue for Jaime. “How did she die?”

“Childbirth.”

Immediately Jaime’s head snapped up as if a fire had been lit under him. “What of the baby?”

Brienne looked at the squire, anxious for his response. The child was still half-Jaime, and anything that was half-Jaime she could not hate. _It’s not the child’s fault who it’s mother was. Jaime deserves to be a father to one of his children, at least._

The squire only shrugged. “I do not know, ser. It was not mentioned in the reports I’ve heard.”

Jaime turned away, his good hand covering his mouth, and Brienne nodded stiffly at the squire. “Thank you.” The boy left, continuing on his search to find Lady Sansa, and tentatively Brienne approached Jaime, touching his shoulder. “Jaime…”

“It’s nothing.” He said a little too quickly, and even though she could not see his face, she could hear that his voice was thick with emotion. “The child is probably dead too. I was foolish to hope, but…”

He was trying to be strong, but Brienne was having none of it. She wrapped her arms around his hunched shoulders and pulled him into her. “You can cry.” She said to him. “I won’t judge you. If I were you, I’d probably cry too.”

Hesitatingly, Jaime turned into her embrace and burrowed his face into her shoulder, his body quivering against her chest.

There was something so intimate about it, holding someone as they cried. Not in a sexual way, but emotionally. _I don’t think I’ve ever seen him cry._ Brienne realized, but now Jaime let her hold him as his emotions flowed freely. There was no mask, no barriers. He wasn’t the Kingslayer with her, or a knight of the Kingsguard, or a son of Casterly Rock. He was just Jaime.

“I’m not crying for her.” Jaime said once he’d gotten ahold of himself. “Not really. But Myrcella and Tommen…they were such good children, and I failed them as a father. I thought that this time maybe I could…” He pulled away from her and shook his head. “It’s stupid, I know.”

“It’s not stupid.” Brienne insisted immediately.  

“Yes, it is. I should’ve known, I should’ve known that I would never get a chance…”

“ _Jaime_.” Impulsively she took his hand in both of hers and Jaime looked up at her, green eyes rimmed with red. “Cersei may be dead, but…there’s a chance that the baby could still be alive. You’re the father, you deserve a chance to raise it.”

Jaime hesitated. “Even _if_ the child is still alive, how am I to get to it? I doubt the king and queen trust me enough to let me ride to King’s Landing on my own, and never would Qyburn and the Mountain welcome me into the Red Keep to take away their last chance of controlling the Iron Throne. If the child still lives Qyburn will surely crown it and try to rule the Seven Kingdoms as regent.”

But in Brienne’s mind she was already mulling over their options. “The king and queen will need to take the city.” She said, thinking aloud. “And if I were to accompany you, to search for the child…well, the two of us together would stand a better chance, would we not?”  

Jaime didn’t say anything for a long moment and Brienne wondered if she had somehow overstepped, but then he sighed and shook his head ever so slightly. “Brienne,” He spoke her name barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to do this…”

“I _want_ to.” Brienne insisted. “And you’ve saved my life quite a few times. I think I owe you a favor.”

Jaime laughed quietly. “No you don’t. You’ve saved me in more ways than one.”

In the midst of the cold courtyard, surrounded by so much death and destruction, for a moment she forgot about everything but Jaime’s green eyes pointed at her and how it had felt when he kissed her. For the first time in days, she smiled.

What felt like many years ago now, she had promised a grieving mother to return her daughters to her. Now she was going to bring Jaime’s child to him, if that was the last thing she ever did.

Brienne of Tarth did not break her promises.

* * *

 **Samwell** :

The battle was over and a part of him still couldn’t believe that he had survived. Sam wanted to pinch himself as he unfurled a piece of parchment, pressing quill to paper. He was going to write to his mother to tell her what had happened – he knew she was probably still grieving Father and Dickon, but he hoped word that he was safe would bring her some semblance of relief. _When I went to the Wall,_ Sam thought. _I didn’t think I’d ever see her again._ But now the Night King was dead, and if they could just defeat Cersei Lannister then he could return to his mother and sister at Horn Hill. _As Lord of Horn Hill._ Just thinking it felt strange to him…

He had only gotten down a few words when the door opened and Gilly stuck her head into their chambers. “Sam, what are you doing?”

“Just writing to Mother.” He noticed that she didn’t have Little Sam with her, which was odd. Usually the boy was always on her hip or toddling after her. “What’s going on?”

“Queen Daenerys is awake. She wants to speak with you. With both of us.”

As they walked to Daenerys’s solar, Sam felt nervous. _Maybe she had changed her mind. Maybe she’s finally realized that I’m not fit to be lord of anything…_ He should’ve known better than to hope he’d be able to return home.

When they walked inside, Sam was surprised to see that the queen was sitting down, laughing and bouncing Little Sam on her knee. The boy laughed raucously as Daenerys kissed his cheek. She was wrapping up a conversation with the smith – the dark-haired one who Jon had brought back from the south – who was unable to contain his grin. Evidently whatever they’d discussed had gone in his favor. “Sorry, we’re almost finished.” He said when he saw Sam and Gilly, quickly getting up from the table. “Thank you again, Your Grace. You have no idea how much this means to me. And to Arya.”

Daenerys smiled. “No need to thank me, cousin. You’ve earned it.” Sam didn’t know what exactly was going on, but he supposed it was neither here nor there to him and he’d never been the nosy type.  

When they were alone, Queen Daenerys stood up, lifting Little Sam into her arms. “Such a handsome boy.” She said to Gilly. “How old is he?”

Gilly cleared her throat. “Four, Your Grace.” She looked as nervous as Sam felt.

The queen, however, looked perfectly at ease. “I’m sure you’re both very proud of him.” She smiled and held Little Sam with one arm so she could place a hand over her belly. “I hope that my children and yours can grow to become friends. I know how much Sam’s friendship has meant to Jon over the years, and yours as well my lady.”

Gilly blushed. “I’m no lady, Your Grace.”

Daenerys smiled slyly, like she knew something they didn’t, and looked from one of them to the other. “Yes, that’s exactly what I brought you here to discuss…” She placed Little Sam down on the floor and he immediately raced to Gilly as fast as he could on his chubby little legs. Gilly scooped him up and kissed his head, while Queen Daenerys looked at Sam. “I’m not naming you Lord of Horn Hill.”

Her words hit him like a punch in the gut and Sam tried to hide the disappointment rushing through him at that moment. “Oh.” He said. It sounded pathetic. “I see…”

Gilly, however, didn’t take this news so lightly. “But that’s not fair!” She objected strongly. “That’s his family home! If anyone should have it, it should be Sam!”

He could feel his face start to grow hot and Sam side-eyed Daenerys, only to find that she was eerily calm. “Gilly – ”

Now she turned to him, eyes blazing. “Don’t ‘Gilly’ me, Samwell Tarly! You are…an amazing man. The greatest man I’ve ever known. And if she can’t see that, then that’s her loss.”

Queen Daenerys, however, was smiling. “You love him quite a lot, don’t you?”

Gilly hesitated, then nodded her head. “Yes, Your Grace. I love him and our son more than anything.”

Sam could’ve kissed her in that instant, and if the queen wasn’t there watching them, he would’ve.

The queen turned to Sam again. _She’s still smiling, why is she smiling?_ “I’m not naming you Lord of Horn Hill,” She repeated. “Because I’m giving you Highgarden.”

Sam’s breath got stuck in his chest and he knew his face was probably turning every shade of pink. “Wh…what?”

“House Tyrell is extinct, thanks to Cersei Lannister. House Tarly has been one of the Reach’s greatest houses for centuries, so it makes perfect sense to name the rightful head of House Tarly as the new Lord Paramount. I also happen to like you a great deal, Samwell Tarly, as does my husband.”

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. He knew he was probably gawking at Daenerys like an idiot, but he didn’t care. Gilly smiled at him and squeezed his arm. “Your Grace…I don’t know what to say…”

“Just say you accept.”

Sam grinned. “Oh…yes! Yes, I accept!”

“Wonderful,” Daenerys Targaryen said. “I’m happy to hear it. There is one more thing though…” She glanced at Gilly. “You’ll need a wife and an heir.”

In that moment, Sam thought his heart might burst from his sheer joy. _I could marry Gilly._ He thought. _And Little Sam could legally become my son._ It was more than he had ever dared to hope for. He took Gilly’s hand and pulled her towards him, feeling like he was going to cry. Her eyes were already filled with tears. “Gilly…” He didn’t know what to say, so he just decided to speak from the heart. “I know a lot of words, but I don’t think any of them can properly describe how much I love you. You and Little Sam mean everything to me. So…would you…that is, if you want to…would you make me the happiest man in all the land, and agree to be my wife?”

Gilly’s eyes were glistening with unshed tears, and she laughed breathlessly. “Can I say something silly? Well…it sort of feels like we’re already married.”

“It’s not silly.” Sam had fallen in love with her the first time he saw her. He hadn’t even known that was possible before her. In his heart, he already loved her as much as any man could love his wife, and he loved Little Sam as much as any man could love his own son. They were already his family, and this was just a formality. “So that’s a…?”

“ _Yes_. Yes Sam, I love you and I’ll marry you.”

This time he kissed her, not caring who saw.

The door opened again and Jorah Mormont walked in, a familiar sword in his hands. “Seems I’m just in time.” He said, handing Heartsbane off to the queen. “Thought you might be needing this.”

The Mother of Dragons smiled and lifted the sword. There was one more thing to do. “Kneel, Samwell Tarly.”

Grinning, Sam kissed Gilly one more time, kissed Little Sam on the top of his head, and then knelt before the queen. Daenerys Targaryen tapped him on one shoulder with Heartsbane’s blade, then the other. “I, Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of My Name, hereby name you, Samwell of House Tarly, Lord of Highgarden, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach, Lord Paramount of the Mander, and Warden of the South, for now and forever, the titles to be passed onto your firstborn child after you, and to his heirs after him. May your rule be long and prosperous. Arise now, Samwell Tarly, Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South.”

* * *

 **Jon** :

The godswood was quiet after dark.

Even after all the chaos of the last three days, he felt at peace here. The godswood was a place that had been special to the man who raised him, had been special to all of the Starks, and Jon suddenly wondered how many afternoons and evenings his mother had spent here as a girl.

He sat under the white branches and red leaves of the weirwood tree and placed Longclaw across his knee to clean it, the melancholy face carved into the tree’s trunk seeming to watch over him. Sitting in comfortable silence, he methodically polished the steel. _Lightbringer,_ The red priests and priestesses were calling it. _The Red Sword of Heroes._ When he passed Lady Kinvara in the courtyard that morning, she had bowed to him and called him ‘Azor Ahai’. They were talking about him like he was some sort of god. “R’hllor’s chosen one,” They whispered as he walked by. “The son of fire who walks among the mortals.” Jon let them say what he liked, though he did not feel like a god. He’d done what needed to be done to save his people, and had paid the price in blood. Not only Melisandre’s, but the blood of all the men and women who had lost their lives in the battle.

His mind wandered to Bran, not for the first time in these past three days. A memory came to Jon from many years ago, from when Bran was no more than five or six. Lady Catelyn had told him to stop climbing Winterfell’s walls and Bran had reluctantly agreed, but it was scarcely a fortnight later that Jon and Robb awoke in the middle of the night to find Bran had snuck out to go climbing while they were asleep. Their father instructed Bran to go to the godswood for some silent contemplation, only when they went to retrieve him later they found the boy asleep in top of the godswood’s highest sentinel tree. Lord Eddard had carried him back home, careful not to wake him.

Jon snapped out of his reverie when he heard Sansa and Arya approach. “We were starting to wonder where you ran off to.” Sansa said.

“Just needed to get away from it all for a while.” He placed Longclaw on the ground and walked over to his sisters, both of them silently staring up at the tree.

Later they would need to discuss Bran, about what they had lost. They would need to plan how they were going to survive the rest of the winter and make the march south to take the Iron Throne back from Cersei. But right now Jon was content to simply be standing in the godswood with his sisters, in comfortable silence.

Arya shifted nervously from one foot to the other. She looked unusually fidgety, and Sansa smiled at her teasingly. “You’re up to something, aren’t you?”

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Fine.” Arya sighed. “I suppose I _should_ tell you…” She paused, biting down on her lip. “Gendry is talking with Daenerys right now. Asking to be legitimized.”

“Is that what you’re worried about?” Jon asked. “Dany will say yes.” The thought had crossed his mind before and surely Daenerys had thought about it too. There were many lords in the Stormlands who had yet to declare their allegiance, and if they could show them that Robert Baratheon’s only living son was aligned with them, that may make the Storm Lords sympathetic to their cause. It also helped that Jon and Daenerys both liked Gendry and wanted to repay him for his help in the war effort.

“Well, when he’s done with Daenerys, he’s going to ask you both for something too: permission to take a wife.”

“Oh.” Jon said. “Well, Tyrion was just saying we need to make political matches. Daenerys will probably have a better idea about who to marry him to. I guess a woman from the Stormlands to curry favor. The Penroses were always loyal to Robert, and Daenerys could probably form an alliance with the Selmys due to her past with Ser Barristan. I think Lord Arstan Selmy has a maiden cousin…”

“Jon,” Arya cut him off. “When I said ‘you both’, I meant you and _Sansa_. Do you get what I’m saying?”

“So he wants a Northern bride? That’s fair. Lyanna Mormont or Alys Karstark won’t work, since they have their own keeps, but maybe one of the Manderlys. Or the Pooles? The Mazins?”

“He already has a bride in mind!” Arya groaned in frustration. She glanced from Jon to Sansa, suddenly nervous again. “He’s going to ask you for your permission to marry me.”

Jon heard Sansa’s sharp intake of breath and his own jaw physically dropped open. “Permission to… _what_?”

“Well, not permission really.” Arya said. “I don’t like the concept that a woman needs her family’s permission to marry who she wants. But Gendry insisted on getting a blessing, at least, before we wed – ” She was cut off when Sansa hugged her, the strength of her unexpected embrace nearly enough to knock Arya over.

“Arya, this is wonderful! I didn’t think you’d ever – ”

“Hey!” Arya grumbled, her voice muffled since she was currently being crushed into Sansa’s bosom.

“This is so exciting.” Sansa continued to gush. “Jon, we’ll have to invite Gendry to sup with us tomorrow! I need to get to know him. I mean, I do _know_ him, but only a little, and if he’s to be my goodbrother – ” Before Jon could respond in the affirmative, she had already turned her attention back to Arya, brushing back their sister’s hair and touching her face, which made Arya look uncomfortable. “Arya, you’re going to be _Lady Baratheon_! You’ll have to tell us everything. How did he ask you? When are you going to get married? What are you going to wear at the ceremony? Oh, I think some grey lace would look absolutely exquisite. I’ll make your maiden cloak of course – ”

Arya squirmed out of Sansa’s grip. “First of all, do not _ever_ call me ‘Lady Baratheon’ again. Yes, that’ll be my title, but I don’t want any of my family or friends calling me that, especially not the two of you. Secondly, I asked him. Thirdly, I am absolutely not wearing a dress. If you try to make me, I’ll find Gendry and we’ll elope without you.”

Sansa ignored her complaints, her lower lip quivering as if at any moment she might burst into tears of joy. “Oh Arya,” She sighed. “I’m so unbelievably happy for you.”

Tentatively, Arya smiled. “Thank you, Sansa. But I’m still not wearing a dress.”

Sansa let out a watery laugh. “Well, I have time to try and convince you.”

Now, Arya turned her attention to him. “Jon, you’ve been awfully quiet.” She was biting her lip and Jon could tell that secretly she was aching for his approval even if she wouldn’t admit it.

He shook his head, feeling like he might cry himself. Sometimes he forgot that Arya, his beloved baby sister, was a woman grown now who was fully capable of protecting herself. He had to let her go out into the world, but at least Storm’s End and King’s Landing weren’t so far away. And he knew that Gendry was a good man who would love his sister and treat her honorably – he would not part with Arya for anything less. “I’m very happy for you, little sister. It’s just hard for me to accept that you’re all grown up.”

Arya grinned and broke away from Sansa to embrace him. “Does that mean you approve?”

“Yes, I approve. Though I might make Gendry work a little for my blessing…” Arya laughed into his chest. He liked Gendry and everything, but he wasn’t going to part with Arya easily and he needed to make it very clear how his sister deserved to be treated.

A thought occurring to him, Jon pulled back so he could look at Arya. “How did this come about anyway? I knew the two of you liked each other, but you’ve only just met two weeks ago…”  

Arya and Sansa stared at him for a long moment, and then they both burst out laughing. “Oh Jon,” Sansa said. “You really can be clueless sometimes.”  

Jon’s grey eyes flitted from one of them to the other. “What am I missing here?” He asked, which only made Sansa and Arya laugh harder.

They were still laughing and Jon was still confused when there was the sound of footsteps approaching them. “Pardon me, Your Grace,” The squire said, bowing his head. “Lady Stark, Lady Arya. But I have urgent news from King’s Landing. The queen is dead.”

Sansa and Arya’s laughter immediately died. Jon stared at the squire, dumbfounded, and when he glanced at his sisters he saw they were both doing the same. “Which queen?” Arya blurted out, even though truly they all knew well and good which queen the boy meant.

“Queen Cersei.” He said, turning to Jon. “You can read it for yourself, my king. It’s all here in the raven scroll.”

Jon took the rolled up parchment and unfurled it. He was in so much shock that it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust enough for him to read. The message was brief and written in sloppy, panicked handwriting. It was from one of Varys’s informants, a maidservant in service to Cersei at the Red Keep, but as the Spider was dead it seemed his little birds would be chirping to them from now on. “What he says is true,” Jon told Sansa and Arya. “Cersei Lannister died three days ago, due to childbirth complications. The letter says nothing of her child’s fate.” Though silently Jon suspected the child was probably dead too. He felt a sudden, unexpected pang of sadness for Jaime Lannister, one father to another.

Sansa walked over to Jon and snatched the letter from his hands. “Let me see that.” She said, and Jon did not protest. Silence hung between them for several long moments, even after the messenger left them. Sansa was reading frantically and Arya was speechless, something she rarely was. _Cersei dead?_ Jon could scarcely believe it.

Sansa’s blue eyes were wide as they scanned over the letter’s contents once, twice, three times. “She’s dead.” She breathed, turning to Arya, and then suddenly she was laughing. Her face broke out into a gleeful smile and she accidentally crumpled the parchment in her hands as she brought them up to cover her face.

“What’s wrong with you?” Arya said as Sansa continued to laugh hysterically. “Have you lost your wits?” But her sister only took her hands, and Arya began to laugh too as Sansa spun her around. The two of them were now jumping and giggling like little maidens.

“You’re crazy,” Jon said. “Both of you.” But he could not help but laugh too as Arya hugged him and Sansa practically squealed with glee.

“Oh Jon, this is wonderful! Don’t you see?” Arya said. “Cersei is dead, the kingdoms are yours!”

“Mine and Daenerys’s.” Jon corrected, but he smiled all the same. They would still have to march south, but with Cersei gone that meant they had a chance of taking Westeros without bloodshed, which would save thousands of lives. That was, in his mind, something to celebrate indeed. He wondered if Dany knew and thought that if by some chance she didn’t, she would be overjoyed when he told her. They desperately needed a piece of good news after these past three days…

Jon had never dreamt of being a king. He craved no crowns or jewels, and he had never wanted to sit the Iron Throne. _Let the thing be burnt,_ He thought silently. _The Iron Throne represents the way things were, not the way things are going to be._ He and Daenerys should each have their own chairs, side by side. They were going to be equals, to build a Westeros that was free and just. _And then someday our son or our daughter will continue our legacy after we’re gone._ Yes, in that moment Jon Snow thought that being a king would not be so bad at all. Not when it meant he could create a Westeros where his family could be safe, and where the people could finally know peace.

Sansa now wrapped her arm around Arya and pulled her into her side, leading her back in the direction of the castle. “Now that we don’t have to worry about Cersei any longer,” Sansa was saying. “We can focus on more important things: like the dress for your wedding.”

Jon could not see Arya’s face, but regardless he knew she was rolling her eyes. “Seven hells Sansa, how many times do I have to tell you? I’m not wearing a wedding dress!”

But Sansa would not take no for an answer. “I can make you one you’ll like, trust me! Perhaps grey trimmed with white – or white trimmed with grey? With a high neck, and a long train…”

“A _train_? Sansa, are you out of your mind?”

As his sisters continued to argue over raiment, Jon picked Longclaw off the ground and sheathed it at his waist. He was about to turn and follow the girls back to Winterfell when something caught his eye.

A black bird was perched at the top of the heart tree. _No,_ Jon silently corrected himself. _Not just any black bird. A raven._ Jon’s grey eyes met the raven’s black ones, and he swore that the bird knew who he was. And Jon thought that perhaps, he knew who the bird was too…

The sight was enough to make him smile, and a low laugh emerged from his lips. He watched the raven fly away, then he turned and increased his pace to catch up with his sisters. Sansa and Arya’s squabble over wedding clothes had now dissolved into laughter and playful jibes. And as they walked inside the castle, Jon let the familiar warmth of Winterfell envelop him and welcome him home.


End file.
